


Sherlock Meets Shakespeare

by kbj1123



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Eventual Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-03-24 00:26:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13799505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kbj1123/pseuds/kbj1123
Summary: In investigating the existence of his sister, Sherlock, Watson, and Mycroft find themselves involved with a highly classified worldwide espionage agency that works beyond the scope of international law. This fanfic happens within the context of Season 4 Episode 4, "The Final Problem."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is a description of sexual assault in this story in flashback. 
> 
> Cordelia Lear, Shakespeare, Lord Byron, Peter Forsythe, and Addison Smythe are original characters, some of whom have appeared in previously published anthologies. All rights reserved.

In the conference room, Sherlock closes his eyes and tilts back in his chair. Mycroft’s loud, short breaths indicate that he’s much less calm than he wants everyone to think. He’s clearly agitated. And John is just…resigned and irritated. Watson recently discovered that his therapist has turned out to be one of the most dangerous people in the world. And the most dangerous person in the world turns out to be the sister Sherlock never realized he had. Mycroft knew. So really everyone here is annoyed except for the person talking to them. They’re stuck here in a nondescript room furnished with uncomfortable chairs and a long, laminate woodgrain table at MI6. They’re having to listen to a man called Peter Forsythe, who is from an agency no one’s ever heard of, telling them what to do and why. “Start from the beginning,” John entreats him. “Explain where you’re from once more.” 

Sherlock tents his fingers and keeps his eyes closed. Forsythe is clearly posh. He’s in his mid-forties, well-educated, it sounds like he has an Oxford-educated accent. His face is almost perfectly symmetrical: very handsome. He’s meticulously shaven, about 6’2” and quite possibly the most perfect specimen of human male he’s ever seen in person. He has perfect 1/5 proportions between brow and space between the eyes. Angle distance from eye corner to nostril on each side a less perfect 1/3 but his nose is straight and elegant enough to make up for it, except for a slight curve to the right, no longer than a tenth of an inch, as if it had been broken more than once. His mouth moves evenly—doesn’t favor one side over the other and his teeth and lips are proportioned well. He almost meets the perfect symmetry ratio of aesthetic human beauty. There is no indication of cosmetic surgery. He looks like he stepped out of a photo shopped fashion advert. His dark blue suit is custom-made. His dark brown hair is silver at the temples and the tiny lines around his eyes belie the lightness and condescension in his demeanor and diction. No pets, no long-term partner. There have been lots of partners though…that’s more of a guess based on apparent confidence and looks. There’s the impression that this man thinks he’s James Bond. He looks the part, and Sherlock has the distinct impression that his tastes for myriad trysts runs along James Bonds lines as well.

Forsythe sounds slightly exasperated as he begins again. “Put in very, very simple terms Dr. Watson, The Agency is the British branch of a much larger organization of covert operatives. We’re highly specialized spies. We are virtually unknown to the world. We work outside of international and national laws. We address threats beyond the capacity of organizations like MI6 or the CIA. Only those with top tier clearance are aware of our existence. We are here today because you’ve managed to entangle yourself in our business.”

That business is Eurus, the sister Sherlock just learned he had. She is a major connection to one Addison Smythe, whom The Agency has been tracking for three years. “The Agency consists of divisions by specialty. I am a head trainer and handler in one of the smallest divisions, D6, which contains the entirety of wet works.”

Sherlock notices John’s heart start to rev. “Assassins?! You’re a den of assassins?” Watson’s voice is also a quarter-octave higher with this.

Ignoring him, Forsythe continues, “I am loaning you my best agent’s right-hand person. She’s a linguistic genius, a knowledgeable botanist, and you need her to study the toxins we found on your sister and Mr. Smythe’s most recent batch of corpses. You also need her to translate and decode the subtle and obnoxious texts we’ve intercepted between the two targets. Smythe is a rogue agent. He was trained by us. So Agent Shakespeare’s assistant will be helping you and acting as a liaison.”

He speaks into his phone, “Please send in Ms. Lear.” He glances across the table. “Am I boring you Mr. Holmes.?”

“Only slightly,” he replies. He does right his chair and open his eyes though.

A young woman enters the room quietly. “Ah, Cordelia Lear, these are the men with whom you will be working while Shakespeare is off doing Shakespearean things,” Forsythe tells her. His voice is light and pleasant again. Please feel free to answer any questions you are able to answer. We’re not keeping many secrets for this assignment.”

The woman nods. For the second time in as many hours, Sherlock has seen humanity perfected. She’s very attractive in an Emma Peele kind of way. He almost understands why Watson’s heart rate nearly doubled just now. She has straight brown hair that is loosely braided and hangs down past her shoulder blades. She’s 5’6”, probably about 135 pounds, mid-twenties. She has an hourglass figure and she holds herself with confidence, but not condescension. She’s got on a brown leather pencil skirt and a sweater that somewhat hugs her shape. She has a perfectly symmetrical heart-shaped face and gray eyes. Unlike her boss, Ms. Lear’s features are exactly proportional to the classic standard of beauty with the exception of her face’s heart vs. oval shape. Until today, Sherlock had never seen a human being look that absolutely flawless. As he did upon meeting Forsythe, he scans to see if he can tell whether she’d been surgically altered in any way. As with Forsythe, he mentally concludes, “Highly unlikely.” She smiles slightly and nods in turn at each of them, but says nothing. She instead waits for Forsythe to finish talking. Her posture is straight and relaxed—confident and not self-conscious, give that she’s walked into a room full of strange men who are assessing her one way or another.

Forsythe introduces her around. “Ms. Lear isn’t a field agent per se,” he tells them; but she works with Shakespeare in the field exclusively. There is rarely one without the other. And, Shakespeare’s taught her a few things.” The last sentence ends with a small, almost lascivious smirk on Forsythe’s lips. Then he adds, “Actually, Shakespeare and Ms. Lear are only back to our side of the pond recently. Three years ago they were in Brazil, and two years ago they were in America.

Mycroft leans in on his elbows. “So you have no idea who we are then? Have you heard of Sherlock Holmes?”

Ms. Lear doesn’t sit down. She glances over at Sherlock, meeting his eyes and he shivers slightly. Then she turns to Mycroft and politely answers, “No, I have not heard of any of you I’m afraid." She shrugs and says to him, Well, I've heard of you in passing. Sorry. All I’ve been told today is I’ll be meeting an MI6 director, an army doctor, and an investigator who fancies himself to be a deductive logician.” Her voice is feminine and soft. It reminds him of the character in King Lear whose name she has. In fact, it seems a bit coincidental. Sherlock purses his lips and frowns.

“Yes Sherlock?” Forsythe asks, amused at something. “You’re dying to do your party trick, aren’t you? Be my guest.”

Sherlock sits up straight and looks at her more carefully. “Your father was an actor,” he begins, “a classical one. He named you after a tragic character in a play. Agent Shakespeare, whatever his name really is, likely is paired with you for that among other reasons.” He pauses and thinks about Forsythe’s comment about Shakespeare having taught her things. “You’ve had a sexual relationship with him in the past.” At this, she smirks and Forsythe suppresses a guffaw. Sherlock continues, “You’ve travelled the world quite a bit as a child or adolescent due to your parent’s work and picked up languages easily…probably about a dozen….” Then he hesitates. Nothing about her physical presence speaks of much in the way of preferences or past. And he can’t place her accent precisely. Like Forsythe’s it’s certainly mid-to-upper-class London, but he’s usually able to be more specific than that. “Your clothes aren’t new but they’re fashionable and well-kept. You don’t have a lot of money to spend on yourself so you are very careful with what you have by way of possessions and wardrobe. He furrows his brow. “Your confidence points to high intelligence and a solid and supportive network of family. You were sheltered growing up. But you don’t have time for a social life. As a youth your time was spent in study. As an adult your work takes up most of your life and has for a very long time.”

She laughs and finally takes a seat. “First off, my father was Howard Lear,” she tells them. 

Watson sits up straight. “THE Doctor Howard Lear? The biologist?” 

She nods once. That interests Sherlock and he leans forward. Dr. Lear died twenty years ago in a car accident. He was on the verge of winning a Nobel Prize for his groundbreaking work.

“Cordelia is a family name from my godparents. My mother, however,” she concedes, “is an actress associated with the Royal Shakespeare Company and the irony of my name was purposeful.” She pauses and smiles at him. Behind her even, slightly full lips are perfect teeth. He shivers again. “While I do know Agent Shakespeare very well, I assure you we have never been romantically involved. I lived my entire childhood and misspent youth right here in England. I grew up and went to University in Cambridge. I am not going to divulge my income but I assure you I don’t want for physical comfort. I haven’t spoken with my mother in many years and I couldn’t give a toss about her. Aside from my godparents, who I do see occasionally, there is no ‘network’ of family to speak of.” 

She pauses and looks at him. Her posture remains tall and relaxed. She’s a natural leader. He looks down because he can feel himself warming. He’s never been, as Watson would likely put it, smacked down so thoroughly before. She goes on, “Shakespeare’s moniker and my name do make for an adorable pairing, but one hasn’t got much to do with the other. Shakespeare is gifted at making connections. This agent can conceive of and execute any manner of honey trap imaginable, and their job usually entails some combination of gaining a target’s complete attention and trust, then getting what The Agency needs and usually putting the poor sod out of his or her misery.” The descriptions sounds practiced to Sherlock. She’s had to cover for this agent’s highly questionable actions many times, he decides. “Agent Shakespeare is what we call a D6-CA-FA. Wet Works Division, Covert Assassin and Face Person. The very few operatives with that designation use literary codenames.”

Forsythe grins. “And a rather good if macabre operative at that. Shakespeare rivals only their professional superior, Lord Byron, in seduction and killing. And not even with a pistol…we all sit in awe of them for skill and style: Shakespeare prefers either bare hands, toxins, or a katana.”

The other three men’s eyes go wide. “Hence the pairing, given Ms. Lear’s skill set,” he adds. 

“Shakespeare enjoys sharp, pointy things,” Cordelia tells them, smiling a little, as if she were explaining a companion’s eccentricity at a party. “And periodically requires an assistant and an interpreter. Were there more questions?”

“How many languages do you actually know?” Mycroft asks. Mycroft and John’s pulses have been racing incrementally since this woman walked into the room. Mycroft is nervous. Watson is attracted to her.

Cordelia stares off, looking as if she’s counting in her head. She furrows her brow for a moment in an admittedly cute frown. “I think about thirty as if a native speaker. The only groups whose languages escape me a bit are the tribal ones, like in South America, Australia, and Africa. And I don’t sound like a native at all in either of the major Chinese dictions, Korean, or Vietnamese. My Hindi isn’t entirely convincing, either.” There is not a bit of boastfulness in her reply. She looks around the room at the four men and smiles kindly. “I like this game. Is it my turn now?”

Without waiting for a reply, she fixes her gaze on Sherlock. “You’re very clever. Extremely so. And you know it, so you think you are separate from humanity in some intellectual, rarified sense. Additionally, you enjoy the sound of your own voice and although you avoid celebrity status and prefer to work in the background, you also like to show off. You choose your friends carefully because generally people tend to both bore and disappoint you. In fact it’s turned into a presumption on your part that almost no one is worth your prolonged attention or time. You think you’re the smartest person in every room and see things perfectly clearly like no one else. You aren’t, and you don’t. You live alone. You cultivate an attitude of contempt for conventions such as neatness or personal appearance, yet you are very particular about your clothing and possessions nonetheless.” Sherlock shifts in his seat uncomfortably and opens and closes his fists under the table a couple of times. John and Mycroft both look very amused. 

“Since you brought it up, I can say in turn that your love life is nil and has been for years.” Her voice is even and academic, but not judgmental. She leans in and rests her forearms on the table. Her arms, like the rest of her, are a pleasing somewhat fair shade and evenly colored. “Because you believe yourself to be a few echelons of brilliance higher than others, you pursue neither romantic nor sexual encounters. You have very little…” she pauses, watches him for a moment, and goes on, “You have almost no experience with sexuality whatsoever, aside, perhaps, from something cerebral or passing. It interests you more than you like to admit. You likely have experienced passing attractions before. You might have sexted before; I doubt it was at all intense, or even what others would categorize as erotic. You might have been tempted or curious regarding actual intimate human touch, but you don’t linger on it. You have told yourself that romantic entanglements are distracting and boring so many times that you’ve come to believe it. You’ve probably taken that premise to the conclusion that most, if not all emotional or human entanglements are much more trouble than they’re worth, and boring. You may even fancy yourself a kind of brilliant sociopath. You aren’t a sociopath, and while you are indeed very, very smart, you don’t necessarily stand apart. You go to great mental and physical lengths to live in almost virtual emotional solitude, even though, judging by the pinched mouth, narrowed eyes, and fists you’re hiding under the table, you are Clearly. Very. Emotional.” 

Sherlock’s stomach twists and he digs his fingernails into his clenched fists under the table. He doesn’t like this woman in spite of the intelligence and aesthetics.

“And finally,” she says, smiling gently, “I’m afraid you’re incorrect in your self-assessment. Your reasoning is inductive. It’s based on observations, just as those I’ve just offered. Deductive reasoning is based on pure premises. Here’s a quick example: if A equals B and B equals C, then A equals C. It goes from general to particular. Gravity causes things to fall. Dr. Watson is sitting under an apple tree. Gravity caused the apple to fall on his head.” She turns her attention to Watson and her expression softens. “I’m extremely sorry, by the way, for the recent loss of your wife, especially right after having a baby. I hope you find peace.” Then she turns to Mycroft and smirks. “I’ve read your dossier. It wouldn’t be fair to do you.” She looks up at Forsythe. “Well?” 

Forsythe laughs and says, “Spot on!” John and Mycroft both look into their laps. Their expressions are both horrified and amused. 

“I notice Shakespeare doesn’t have a gender,” Watson says. 

“Not a relevant issue for you,” Forsythe responds. “Shakespeare will come into play when Smythe is within our reach.”

Sherlock wants nothing more than to be as far away from this woman as possible, but both Mycroft and Watson appear hell-bent on chatting her up. He silently concedes that she is strikingly beautiful. But she hit too many marks close to home as compared with his almost total misreading of her. He hears her telling them, “I’m twenty-eight...No, actually three Ph.D.’s. I finished them more or less simultaneously: languages, botany, and philosophy. I completed philosophy while working here though.” Then he hears, “Absolutely. Yes. Tomorrow I’ll meet you there and I’ll look at the samples and try to translate the scrap of text. It’s been a long time since I’ve tried my luck with Ancient Greek, though.”

Watson doesn’t shut up about her the entire cab ride back to the flat, nor does he let it go once they’re inside. “I do believe you’ve not just *met* your match, I think you’ve met someone smarter than you!” He grins stupidly at him. “And prettier!” 

Sherlock picks up his violin. “Well perhaps you can spend more time with *her* then,” he replies, more sharply than he intended. As he begins his Mozart sonata, John says something about asking her out. He ignores him, but his face feels hot for no reason he can fathom. He chooses a piece at allegro with a lot of thirty-second notes and staccato.


	2. Chapter 2

Cordelia plops down in one of the black leather armchairs in Peter’s office. She really wants the sofa, but she knows how much humanity, debaucheries, and bodily fluids that furniture has endured over its lifetime in this room. She’d contributed to the mix in many times in the past. “I think they’re going to make it difficult, Peter,” she tells him. She props her feet on his desk and slumps down a little. “I think they will be watching every move I make to get the upper hand here. The older one is too ambitious not to feather his cap with Smythe and he wants to protect his sister. The younger one is irritated with me and thinks he has a point to prove now.”

Peter Forsythe chuckles. He plays with an antique finger puzzle on his obnoxiously solid cherry desk. “Are you telling me Cordi, that the jewel of D6, my best student, the highly coveted apple of every man’s and several women’s eyes is apprehensive? You have doubts about a simple shadow assignment?”

She peers down her nose and across the desk at him. “No, I’m telling you this is going to be more of a pain in the ass than you originally let on, and I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark.” She folds her arms and frowns. “I’m supposed to keep the younger one from getting murdered by Smythe or the sister AND earn his trust, AND find out what he knows while I push him to learn more for our benefit. Normally you’re correct, this wouldn’t be an especially challenging assignment. But he isn’t stupid…he’s going to at least entertain the idea that I’m more than a botanist and translator.”

“You’ve had to do worse,” Peter replies dismissively. 

Cordelia narrows her eyes and gives him the cold glare that she knows to actually affect him.

He drops his shoulders and sits back in his chair. “Look darling,” he tells her as the smug grin fades into the face of her longtime confidante. “We are very close to getting Smythe. That IS what you want, that IS the assignment I had to go out of my way and pull favors for you to get, is it not? You chose to pursue a target whose apprehension is personal to you. You knew this was going to be difficult.”

Cordelia sits up and takes her feet off of his desk. “We haven’t been “darlings,” or even playthings to each other in years,” she says evenly. “And I have a bad feeling about this route to acquiring Smythe. I don’t like getting involved in family affairs. Not my own, and certainly not other's." She pushes the pile of the red Oriental rug under her feet, making it change shades a few times.

Peter shrugs. “This is what I could get you. I’ve done my part. I want you to capture him and on a personal level I want to watch you flay him alive with that sword of yours. So you do your part now. You know how to earn ANYONE’s confidence.” He grins knowingly at her. “Sherlock will be a nice challenge for you. And so far you have his attention.”

She sighs, defeated. 

“Gear up and get on with it,” he says authoritatively and pushes a file folder toward her. "R&D, then get out of here."

**

The quartermaster’s assistant Simon is in Research and Development by himself when Cordelia arrives. He’s new—she hasn’t seen him except in passing. He turns pink and stammers a little when he greets her. She doesn’t bother to introduce herself. She hands him her folder with the code number assigned her for this mission. Very few individuals actually know agents’ real names or which code names go with whom.

Cordelia smiles cordially and asks, “What can we do about covert surveillance, darling?” Simon takes her folder and tells her about the usual kinds of equipment agents use to spy on close-range targets. 

She shakes her head and frowns. “No, Simon. My target is very, very clever. He’ll see those.” She saunters over to the table where Simon had been working before she got there. R&D is a veritable playground of miniaturized gadgets. “What are these?”

“Oh. Umm…” he looks down at the floor. “These are gonna be undetectable but they’re not for you. Mr. Forsythe has those earmarked for someone else.” He backs away and studies the list she’s given him. He starts to collect Shakespeare’s usual complement of toxins, firearm, ammo, and miniaturized spycraft. “I’m really sorry,” he says sincerely. He looks like a lost puppy. A cute one mind you, in a nerdy kind of way, but lost. She tries cajoling him a bit longer and although he waivers, he does not budge against the boss' orders.

She sighs inwardly. She might as well put him out of his misery and get what she wants. Cordelia smiles warmly and steps closer to him as he packages her supplies. “Are you alright Simon?” she asks. “You seem a little uptight.” He blushes furiously and looks at the floor again.

“It makes me unhappy when you’re so upset. I like you, and you’re far too cute to be so agitated,” she continues. “Here, let me.” She steps to his right and pulls his lab coat off. Simon’s brown puppy-dog eyes are wide and he begins to shake. “Look at you, so nervous!” she exclaims. She gets behind him, presses the heels of her hands into the back of his shoulders, and circles her fingers around them. “It’s okay, you don’t have to be afraid of me. You don’t have to acquiesce—I don’t always get what I want,” she says into his ear. She works her hands down to his mid-back. He’s actually surprisingly muscular. This might be a fun means to an end after all. “But darling you must relax!” She massages his back some more and the fabric of his shirt scrunches around her fingers. “Does that feel better?”

Simon’s voice is an octave lower when he replies, simply, “Much.”

She leans her head in so that her mouth nearly touches his ear. “Would you like me to continue or have you had enough? I’m afraid I’ll need you to remove your shirt if you need me to do more.” She makes her voice all sweetness and concern.

His breathing has shortened slightly. “More please,” he says. He sounds much less like a lost puppy than he did a while earlier. 

“Well, I’ll need more room to move then, if that’s okay.” She walks in front of him and pulls off her sweater. He stares and she smiles demurely. Then she reaches behind and unzips her skirt, allowing it to fall to the floor. Keeping her heels and stockings on, she steps over her clothes. “That will make things a little easier,” she assures him as she unbuttons his shirt. He shrugs it past his shoulders as she puts her hands flat on his chest. She has to hand it to the trainers in D8: Simon is in very good shape. 

He stands taller as she works her way down his torso and along his waist. “You might want to hold onto me for support,” she suggests. His hands aren’t shaking at all. He firmly grips her waist as she continues. She has him now. She almost feels bad about this. Then again, judging by the size of the bulge in his pants, this probably will be a lot of fun. She looks up at him. His eyes are hazel and his skin is fair. She holds eye contact as she smiles up at him and his eyes become almost all pupil. She squeezes his waist and smooths her hand over his abdomen, which while not field-agent cut, still demarcates nicely.

She doesn’t even have to go further in the seduction because he is absolutely interested now. “We can really get in trouble for this…um…” He takes a deep breath. “Um…I don’t even know your name.” He brings his hands up higher and grasps her nipples through her bra. She kicks the entire pile of her clothing behind her. Instead of answering the question, she feels her way past his abdomen to his belt and unfastens it, smiling coyly at him. His eyes narrow and he smiles back. He is certainly more of a hungry wolf than a helpless pup at this point. She undoes his pants and he pulls them, along with briefs, socks, and shoes off. She kicks them away in the opposite direction as he moves his hands back to her breasts.

While his actual equipment is slightly above average in size, his lack of experience is blatantly obvious. She tolerates him squeezing her breasts as if they were stress balls for a bit while she strokes his hair and palms his balls. Once her breasts have passed the point from numb to slightly painful, she steps in and kisses him, forcing him to bring his hands lower around her back again. Once again, there’s clearly a learning curve he hasn’t even approached climbing yet. His tongue flattens against hers and his jaw goes completely soft. The result is a kiss that is more than a bit drooly. This is a damned shame. She really doesn’t have the time or inclination to break in a complete newbie. Furthermore, it doesn’t dissuade him from returning to kneading her breasts. 

She pulls away to arm’s length and makes eye contact again. Smiling, she walks backward toward the table with the coveted surveillance equipment. There isn’t even a question of him not following her. His entire body is nearly pink and his mouth is hanging open. She tries not to roll her eyes…the things she does in order to get what she wants. Cordelia hoists herself onto the table next to her prize. Then she grabs him and kisses him again. She’s literally swallowed ejaculate that tasted better than Simon’s saliva. Nevertheless, she groans into his mouth and knocks the equipment she wants into her pile of clothes. She focuses on him from the waist down. She is very sure that this is going to be a brief encounter at the very least. He Reaches down and grabs at her crotch.

Cordelia snaps her thighs shut and hops off the table. “A bit forward, aren’t you?” she half teases, half accuses. He looks nervous again. Before he can notice that there are things missing from the table, she steps in front of her pile of clothes and runs an index finger past his abdominals and around the head of his penis. “Simon it’s so perfect! I don’t think I can have you inside of me until I see you work it for me.” It is probably among the top five stupidest lines she has ever come up with in her life and she nearly laughs at herself. It has the intended effect though. He looks her in the face and says, “You want to see what this can do for you?” He probably thinks he sounds seductive. She nods and lowers her eyelids. “Oh yes please!”

He closes his eyes and palms himself. She uses the opportunity to shove the equipment into her satchel of approved spy craft. It takes about three minutes for him to look ready to lose control completely. She walks behind him. “I have to. I simply must touch you,” she coos into his ear and bites his earlobe. It takes him over the top. He yells out at a pitch she thought only hyenas could achieve when he comes. She sighs and runs her fingers across the back of his shoulders and up and down his spine. “That was just lovely,” she tells him. 

She stands next to him and makes a point of looking at the clock. “Oh no!” he panics. “I’ve got another agent and the boss coming in here in five minutes! He takes one more longing look at Cordelia and scrambles for his clothes as she dresses. He asks for her mobile number as she picks up her things. She leaves as he buttons his pants. Then she ducks into the ladies’ room and gets sick.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock paces from his bedroom to the living room and back. “What is the MATTER with you?” Watson whines impatiently. Ignoring him, Sherlock yanks his light blue shirt off and pulls the darker blue one off of a hanger. He stares at the pile of discarded garments on the bed and exhales slowly. He’s acting like an adolescent girl. Looking in the mirror, he runs his hand over his head and says to his reflection, “You are being stupid.”

Watson peers around the corner into Sherlock’s room. Standing in the doorway, he glances over at the pile of clothes, and smirks. “Worried about making an impression?”

Sherlock feels his neck get warm. “Evidently, by INDUCTIVE reasoning, it’s been discovered that I care about my appearance,” he replies flatly. 

Watson grins while Sherlock grabs his mobile from a nearby table. “You fancy her! That’s amazing Sherlock! I never thought I’d see it! Look, I’ll back off of her and won’t ask her out. I’m a fantastic wing-man. You should…”

“Shut. Up. NOW, Watson,” Sherlock blurts out with more force than he’d meant. It only makes Watson’s grin more irritating. He stalks to the door and slams it behind him in Watson’s face.

**

Molly and Ms. Lear are already working when he and Watson arrive. “Sherlock! Don’t you look nice today,” Molly smiles warmly. 

He looks past her at Ms. Lear and catches her eye. She briefly smiles and winks at him before she turns back to the lab table. “Good morning!” Her voice is all lightness. 

“I see you have met Ms. Lear, Molly,” he begins. 

“Cordelia, please Mr. Holmes,” she says affably. “We’re going to be working together for some time and I’m afraid we got off on the wrong foot.” She extends her hand out to him. He hesitates before he takes it. Her hand is soft and pleasantly warm, and her handshake grip is confident but not aggressive. Up close, he notices that she is wearing minimal makeup and that she is just as aesthetically pleasing as she was at a slight distance yesterday. Her symmetry is absolutely perfect, as is her complexion. She smells faintly of roses and violets. Without letting her hand go, he swallows hard and replies, “Sherlock.”

She smiles again, looking over at Watson. “Well, John and Sherlock, come and see what Molly and I have found this morning.”

**

The next two months are trying for him. Her warmth and her scent seem to follow him long after they’ve parted for the day. Two weeks into their collaboration she suggested lunch after looking at a particularly gruesome crime scene. He surprised himself by accepting. She's a vegetarian when possible, given travel, she told him. And, they get on well. She really can keep up with his conversation without him having to tone it down the way he does for Watson. She’s at least as good at codebreaking as he is, and has resolved not just the ones left behind as clues by Eurus, but some older things he’d been working on for a few years. He’d brought them to her thinking…he wasn’t really sure what he was thinking. Maybe to prove that they were of equal intelligence, since the puzzles were virtually unsolvable. And she does it all so naturally that there is no hint of superiority in her attitude. So he concentrates harder on any puzzle he can find and brings them to her. At some point he realizes, to his horror, that he does so with the hope that it will mean more time together, just the two of them. To distract himself, he looks for more challenging music to play, and dives into his work. 

“Tell me about your boss,” he requests over one such meal. 

“Peter? He’s a bit full of himself but I like him,” she begins.

“Not Forsythe,” he interrupts.

Her eyes widen a bit. “I see.” She takes a sip of her tea and sets it down again, then relaxes in the booth seat across from him. “Well, without giving away clues to Shakespeare’s identity,” she starts, “Shakespeare is…unique.” She drums her fingers on the table while she organizes her thoughts. “Shakespeare is a little bit younger and newer than their colleagues. We started training at the same time.” She stops there, thinking again.

He decides to change tactics. “What is training like for an agent like that?” he asks. Having known many, many deranged and charming murderers, he says, “What makes one want that kind of work? Were he and Smythe trained similarly?”

She smiles and glances around to make sure no one is nearby. The restaurant is fairly empty. Faint pop music plays through overhead speakers and a few diners are lost in conversation a few tables away. She lowers her voice to just above a whisper. “Agents are recruited by other spies,” she begins. “Shakespeare was noticed whilst at college and brought in. Basic training is the same for all recruits. There are aptitude tests, there is basic physical combat, and there is the kind of breaking in that one sees in military boot camp. Those who pass are taken in by more specialists. In Shakespeare’s case, the head of martial arts, the main one for all of the network, not just Britain I mean, took Shakespeare under his wing and taught them everything that could be taught about defense, offense, martial and hand weapons, and stealth until he was sure that Shakespeare matched himself in skill. Shakespeare was a natural and proved unfazed by finishing off targets no matter how personal or messy the context. So wet works was absolutely the best fit."

"The katana?" He asks.

Cordelia straightens her shoulders. She looks at him seriously and replies, "Shakespeare's job is to take lives. If you cannot stand to hear someone beg for mercy and ignore their pleas; if it's too much for you to get up close and touch them, and watch the horror and sorrow on a person's face as their life drains and their eyes go cold and unseeing, then you have no business in the field. Firearms are too easy and impersonal. Shakespeare takes asassination very, very seriously."

He drums his fingers thoughtfully. He doesn't necessarily disagree. But he's still unsettled. He asks her to continue.

"Lord Byron, who trains face people, noticed that Shakespeare (who of course didn’t have that name yet) was very attractive and naturally engaging. It’s kind of a given in that field. He cultivated that and added more ‘advanced’ training: setting up honey traps. Gaining confidence. Fitting in. Disguise. Techniques for getting as close as possible to a target to get them to give you what you want.” She pauses, clearly hoping that’s enough information. Sherlock waits for her to continue. “Tell me about that,” he says after a few moments.

She takes a deep breath. “Right. Recruits and experienced agents practice with each other at first, and with the trainers like Lord Byron. Obviously, the more specialized and fine-tuned an agent’s natural talents, the more successful they’ll be and the easier it is to assign missions, so they sub-specialize even more.” Sherlock nods. “And Shakespeare’s specialty is?”

She throws her head back and laughs without making any noise. Her body shakes a little as she tries to stay quiet. Then she raises her eyebrows and asks, “Do you really want to know, aside from hitting, kicking, slashing, chopping, and poisoning people?” He waits, keeping his expression neutral.

Cordelia straightens her posture slightly and leans in across the table. She lays her hands flat on the table near where his are resting. Their fingertips are a half-inch apart from each other’s. She looks him straight in the eyes and says, “Seduction. Flattery. Promises. Sex. Very much so seduction and sex, actually.”

He tries not to let his eyes widen or to swallow too hard when she doesn’t break eye contact. Eventually she leans back again. Those are also skills that are built upon natural talents with practice, repetition, and study. Lord Byron oversees most of that training. In fact there is no D6 CA FA that has not shagged and manhandled one another under observation for scrutiny many, many times. They take what they’ve learnt about anatomy and physiology as assassins and break down pleasure responses in addition to what they’ve learnt about pain. They learn to simulate emotion. They learn to suppress their own and then construct better responses to their targets based on what’s most expedient and realistic to their ends. Essentially they learn a lot of ways to read and communicate body language. Is that what you were wanting to know, Sherlock?”

Sherlock uses most of his concentration to not react. It takes a lot to shock him. He isn’t sure if it’s what she’d described or it’s her cool attitude towards it that has shaken him right now. Their server comes by with an annoyingly peppy spring in her step and begins to recite their coffee and dessert menu. Sherlock tries to shoo her away but can’t quite find his voice. Cordelia shakes her head and says, “just more tea for us, please.”

When the server leaves, Cordelia smiles warmly, reaches over and squeezes his hand gently. “If it helps, Shakespeare is also quite gifted in other, more unpleasant enhanced extraction techniques. It’s all basically the same premise. By the time agents like Shakespeare are field-ready, they could just as easily decapitate you as screw you. It’s all basically extraction and extinction one way or another.” She withdraws her hand, looks at the expression on his face, and laughs. “Are you sorry you pushed for an answer, now?”

He nods once. At this angle, with her leaning over and her arm extended, he can see the delicate bones of her throat and clavicles, and the very tops of her breasts when her blouse shifts. He can almost make out the lace of her bra under the fabric. Everything from the waist down reacts in ways that would embarrass him if he weren’t sitting at a table covered with a cloth. “Look,” she tells him, her voice and posture softening. “He snaps his attention back to her face and hopes he isn’t as flush as he feels. It was just a normal bodily reaction to a socially ingrained cue. “It’s my job to understand this and give Shakespeare the support they need to get the usually difficult and dangerous jobs done. It doesn’t mean I have to enjoy it. I just have to be good at it and tolerant.” 

Her eyes are large and her gaze does not waver. She clearly didn’t want him to have insisted on telling him any of this. He half-smiles back at her. “I’m sorry I pushed you when you didn’t want to discuss it,” he tries. She shakes her head, still maintaining the compassionate smile. “I knew you’d insist sooner or later. It’s really okay.”

When the new tea arrives, he downs the cup’s contents, scalding hot, in a couple of swallows. She changes the conversation and within the next hour, they’re back on puzzle-solving and classical music. It isn’t until hours later, well after they’ve gone their separate ways that he realizes how quickly she moved from that topic to the lighter, more comfortable ones. Shakespeare has indeed, as Forsythe mentioned, taught her things.

**

Sherlock and Watson walk back to his flat after a night of surveilling. When Watson inevitably asks about the longer than usual lunch, Sherlock reports, with as much neutrality as he can, “She’s quite complicated. She’s…interesting.” He feels his stomach squeeze not unpleasantly and his heart rate increase by a fraction.

By the time they arrive at the flat, he’s revealed far too much about what he thinks about Cordelia’s company. “You should just ask her out,” Watson sighs, exasperated.

It isn’t like that,” he insists again. He ignores the fact that at the thought of a date with her, of being alone with her in that context, his palms sweat and he nearly drops the violin bow he’d just taken up to rosin. “We are temporary colleagues, and I assure you that while she can be pleasant company, my interest in her runs only as far as she is useful in my investigations.” Watson nods his head once and unsuccessfully tries not to smile. “Right. Of course she is.”

That night, Sherlock is too distracted to sleep. When he drifts off, he is training with her. She’s the recruit. He’s teaching her how to touch him. He startles awake and takes a few slow breaths. His erection is still there. He gets up and goes into the kitchen to take a few fingers of whiskey. He’s a little numb, but still no good. The dream stays with him. Cold shower. Helps until he gets out of the shower, lies down again, and drifts off into the same dream. He decides to finish himself off for the sake of sleep. It’s just a normal human physiological response to a fiction in his mind.

The following afternoon Cordelia is not in the lab. “She had something to do today for Shakespeare,” Mycroft tells him when he texts. “Shakespeare had a lead and they’re somewhere in the world following up.” His heart rate increases by a fraction and his jaw tightens. He wonders briefly about the nature of this “something.” From his constant badgering of Mycroft, he knows that Shakespeare is every bit as devastatingly lethal and attractive as his reputation. Perhaps even more so than Cordelia has let on. He’s not sure of where the wave of apprehension came from when he learns this. Passing interest, he thinks. Nothing. 

“One of the most brilliant and skilled agents the Agency has ever produced,” Peter told him when he Sherlock swallowed his pride, located Forsythe in the MI6 building, and asked. “You wouldn’t want to cross Shakespeare.” Then he looked at the pained expression on Sherlock’s face, threw his head back, and laughed. “Relax! She’s in good hands and she’s only gone for a day, maybe three.” The thought of her being in this man’s hands does the opposite of relaxing him. He understands better why Cordelia said he was NOT a sociopath. Shakespeare, from what he understands, is the definition of high functioning sociopath. What does that make him then? He thinks about her original assessment of him: intelligent end of ordinary. The memory brings two responses that vie for first priority: annoyance and denial on the one hand, and hope that he’s changed her mind on the other. This is getting stupid. He doesn’t like this level of unsurety.

The following morning Lestrade brings him a mystery. A body was found in the Thames, missing several of its fingers. Studying the body in the morgue, he sees that the severing points are sharp and clean, and slightly curved, as if from a katana. The identity of the corpse is a known terrorist. Before he can look further, some people in plain black suits come and take it away.


	4. Chapter 4

She can’t deny that she likes him. Working with a civilian that can match her wit and keep up with the way her brain flew from idea to idea is invigorating. He’s helping her make a lot of headway. Over the past fortnight, she’s also found ways to bring out his sense of humor and catches occasional glimpses of the humanity behind the logical façade. And, if she’s honest with herself, he’s attractive. It has been a long time since she was genuinely attracted to someone. He’s fairly easy to read. She senses the way his pulse quickens and his skin flushes when he comes near her. She is surprised when she finds that she doesn’t mind that. 

When she has that realization, she chastises herself. No good can come of this, it will only complicate things. “You know better than to allow this, Cordelia Emily,” she thinks when she catches herself daydreaming. “This can only end in tragedy.”

By the end of the month, she is sure she has gotten everything she can from him regarding Eurus and Smythe. She’s relieved. Sherlock as an assignment, a target as a means to better intelligence, was more emotionally draining than she thought it might be, even with her initial reservations.

“Stay on with him,” Peter instructs. “Eurus must know by now that forces are closing in. Keep him safely in your sights until this is finished.” She can’t tell whether she’s upset or pleased with the order. Ultimately, she decides, it doesn’t matter. But at least he isn’t a target for her anymore. Now she’s just keeping a watchful eye.

She changes her observational perspective when she sees him that afternoon. To protect him, she needs to be closer to him and understand his routines and personality better. Before she leaves the lab the next time she is there with Watson and Sherlock, she takes a few moments to observe their chemistry more closely. “You bicker like an old married couple,” she observes, not hiding her amusement. John laughs.

“Tell me Sherlock,” Cordelia says, turning to him, “Do you enjoy theater?”

John’s eyes get big and Sherlock bristles. “I’m straight.”

Without hesitating or reacting, she replies, “That’s not what I asked. I asked if you like going to the theater, because my godparents have given me their tickets to a showing of Ariadne auf Naxos for tomorrow evening. I’m looking for company.” 

Sherlock opens and closes his mouth a couple of times and clears his throat. “That means ‘yes,’ John jokes. 

Sherlock takes one more breath, obviously trying to steady himself. “Of course. If you wish.” John looks at his friend quizzically. Cordelia writes down her address and tells him, “Meet me at my flat at six. I’ll drive the rest of the way there. We can grab a fast dinner at a place I like near the theater.” She smiles at both of them and turns to go. As she closes the door behind her, she hears John exclaim, “If you WISH? Really Sherlock?!”

 

He’s surprised when he looks down at the address. She wasn’t exaggerating when she said she didn’t want for income or physical comfort. Cordelia Lear’s flat is at One Hyde Park. It is one of the most posh, old-moneyed areas of London. Translators, even very good ones at a place like the Agency, can’t possibly pay that much. He weighs the possibilities as makes his way there. Kept woman? Maybe Forsythe or Shakespeare have her there as a lover? He doesn’t know much about her, he realizes. She knows more about him. Criminal ties? A possibility but probably not. She’s too straightforward and honest. Inheritance perhaps? Then why on earth would she remain working for such loathsome people? Straightening his tie for the tenth time since getting into the cab, Sherlock wonders who this woman really is. He rings the doorbell.

Cordelia answers and says something to him. He’s not quite sure what though because for just a moment or two, his only working sense is sight. Once again, aesthetics has uncharacteristically muted him. There’s no feeing in his fingers, his mouth is dry, and all he can do in those couple of seconds is stare. She actually has on makeup, and her lips are dark red and full. Her gray eyes, outlined in silvery blue, shine. Her hair is swept into a chignon and when she turns around for him to follow her inside, he is seized with the idea of putting his mouth on the hollow of the back of her neck. Her red silk dress clings to her small waist and her breasts, and the rest of it flows about her like water. “Just a tick,” she tells him, heading down a hallway.

The flat has an open floor layout. It is spacious and sparsely but tastefully furnished. From the door’s threshold, the focal point is the enormous rear wall which consists of floor-to ceiling bookcases and an enormous window. Looking down from it he can see most of Hyde Park in miniature. The books range from literary to scientific and the languages vary. There are almost no pictures of people, but there are few landscapes from around the world. Of note is a 4x6 framed photo of the Statue of Liberty in America. She and a tall, fair-haired man with a buzz-cut stand in front of it with their arms around each other’s waists. A few knick-knacks that look Indian and Japanese in origin are on a shelf. Down one hall he sees the glow of a computer screen, obviously that’s her office. The oak floors look somewhat old but well-kept. Most of the room is decorated in subtle shades of white. He sits on a white leather armchair across from her matching sofa. Beyond the sofa is a kitchen island with a quartz countertop. Like the floor, the cabinets and trim look well-taken care of as they have aged. On the island is a bouquet of very dark red, almost black roses. When he notices them, along with the one photograph of human beings, he is inexplicably disappointed. 

“Aren’t they lovely?” She asks. He didn’t even hear her return. She stands next to him. “From an admirer?” he asks. She leans in and inhales their scent. “A rare token of appreciation for a job well done from Lord Byron,” she explains. He instinctively looks toward the photograph. She smiles a little sadly. “From a long time ago. Another lifetime, but a happy memory. A story for another time, maybe.” Then she turns to him and smiles. “Are you ready then?”

Over dinner at the French restaurant down the block from the theater, she tells him, “You’re wondering about the car and the flat.”

“I wasn’t going to ask,” he replies as nonchalantly as he can manage. He was insanely curious about how she’d come to drive a racing green 1967 Lotus S2 and live in a flat that was worth millions.

“The Lotus was my father’s, a gift from his good friend, my godfather. My godfather kept it for me after Dad died. The flat was also a gift from my godfather. My dad lived there before he met my mother.”

He nods his head and waits for her to finish her sip of wine and continue. “My godparents are Sir Roger and Lady Emma Morgan. They’re the ones with the resources; I’m simply a willing and grateful beneficiary.”

“Of course they are,” he thinks. Sir Roger Morgan was a silent mastermind behind Bletchley Park. There had been rumors that he helped develop MI5 after the war. And he is a billionaire. “He was one of the first overseers of The Agency,” she offers, and then takes a bite of her salad.

The opera itself is performed meticulously enough to bring Sherlock to tears. When he glances over at Cordelia, he can see that she has been equally moved. Her shoulders and torso shake just a little bit, as if the music’s vibrations somehow had a physical effect. Her eyes glisten with the beginnings of tears that never quite fall. The effect is to make her gray eyes look almost silver. A small strand of hair has come loose from her chignon and barely brushes her graceful neck. He resists the almost overwhelming temptation to push it behind her ear. Instead he turns to focus on the performance because he discovers, to his embarrassment, that focusing on Cordelia once again has had the effect of it being a bad idea to stand anytime soon.

Conversation is more enjoyable and engaging than usual on the drive home. He invites her upstairs when she drops him off. She falls against his chest as soon as the door closes behind them. Her lips are warm and soft. As are her shoulders and throat. He kisses her deeply and then pulls away to get behind her. He needs to taste that hollow of the back of her neck. When he does, her scent nearly overpowers him. He pulls her hair loose from its twist, and then spins her around to him again. He isn’t even sure how they got from there to his bed, nor at what point had their clothes come off. All he knows is that he is on his back and his hands are on her waist. She is bearing down on him as he pushes up into her. She throws her head back and closes her eyes, smiling. He closes his eyes and cries out when he climaxes.

Sherlock bolts upright, his heart pounding. He looks over at the clock next to the bed. It is two a.m. He is alone. The date was a week ago and then she was sent out with sodding Shakespeare again to the Continent. She had dropped him in front of 221B Baker Street, agreeing with him that it had been a lovely evening and they should do something again sometime. She kissed his cheek before he got out of her car. The sheets are a messy, sweaty tangle…again. He sighs and buries his face in his hands. He never gets enough sleep lately, even though he needs little to begin with.


	5. Chapter 5

That morning, just as he stops himself from falling forward into his book, Watson suggests, “For the love of everything, Sherlock, just tell her how you feel. Ask her out again. Ask if you can kiss her. Do SOMETHING. You’re in an awful state like this.”

He’s right. The memory of that night and Cordelia herself have become obsessions. He’s worked through drug-induced highs more efficiently than trying to accomplish anything with this new distraction. He texts Mycroft.

“I’m not a dating service,” Mycroft texts back.

An hour later, he receives another text from Mycroft: “Spoke to Forsythe. Back 7:00 this evening.” He gives the location of a private airplane hangar on the city’s outskirts.

From his vantage point, Sherlock watches the deplaning. First a tall, very striking man steps out of the plane. He extends his hand back and Cordelia takes it, and they walk down the plank. They converse briefly. Cordelia smiles widely and laughs at something Shakespeare has said. Then they fist-bump and go their separate ways. He waits a few minutes before getting back in the cab to give the driver her address.

She’s genuinely surprised to see him, but lets him in anyway. Her hair is damp and she’s wearing a Cambridge University sweatshirt and a faded pair of jeans. “Please make yourself comfortable,” she says. “Would you like some tea, or perhaps a glass of wine?”

He shakes his head and sits down on her sofa. “I need to talk to you,” he says seriously. Cordelia quietly comes around to the other end of the sofa and sits next to him. 

“You have become more than a slight distraction. Thinking about you has disrupted my sleep and negatively affected my work.”

Cordelia opens her mouth to reply but he doesn’t let her. He continues, “Against logic and all odds, I’ve become very attracted to you. I believe you are likewise attracted. I think we should get this out of our systems and copulate so that I can move on with my work.”

She stares at him blankly for a moment. He’s caught her off-guard. She must be considering it. How can she say no? She’s intelligent, she’ll see the reasoning behind his idea. She turns a shade of pink and then goes pale.

Sherlock has never seen anyone actually grow cold with anger or indignation. Her eyes narrow and her pupils shrink to small, concentrated dots. Other than that, she stares straight at him, without any other expression on her face. “In my twenty-eight years of life, I have been subjected to more propositions than I can count,” she says with no emotion whatsoever in her voice. “That was, by far and away, the most insulting and disgusting attempt at seduction I have ever encountered.” She pauses to let that register. “I am not a virus to get out of one’s system, and whether I’m a distraction to you is not my problem,” she tells him. Her voice neither lowers nor raises. It is completely even. “Regardless of any attraction between us, I am barely keeping my temper in check. What you just said was objectifying and demeaning.” She doesn’t break eye contact. Sherlock is not prone to metaphorical thinking, but right now she reminds him of the eye of a hurricane. “Leave.”

He doesn’t move. His mind is too busy racing to rectify what he’s said. She stands up, walks to the door, and holds it open. “Get out,” she repeats, this time with a hit of annoyance. He stands up. Facing her, he says, “Cordelia I didn’t mean…” her glacial expression stops him mid-sentence. “Right,” he says softly. He crosses the threshold and she closes the door behind him.

As soon as she is alone, she smiles to herself and goes to the kitchen to pour a glass of wine.

**

“She threw me out,” Sherlock complains. He flops onto his couch, extends his legs across all three cushions, and rubs his face. 

“I’m so sorry,” Watson replies sympathetically. “What did she say?”

He recounts the scene. Watson looks mortified. “What?” Sherlock asks. “I told her exactly what I thought, as you suggested.”

Watson shakes his head. “Let me walk you through this. You have some serious damage control to do.”

 

But damage control waits. The following morning, Cordelia and Shakespeare are once again off someplace, and this time neither Mycroft nor Forsythe are at all forthcoming. “It isn’t anywhere near my clearance level,” Mycroft tells him.


	6. Chapter 6

When she’s been gone for more than a fortnight, he gives in to worry. Eventually out of either pity or annoyance, Forsythe opens up his laptop and shows him some video footage. “This is the Ukraine,” he says with the attitude of a condescending school teacher. He sees a figure crouching around a metal beam. “This is the inside of an old munitions factory where we know Smythe and your sister have been aiding the selling of both arms and people.” The figure is too blurry to even make out whether Shakespeare is a man or a woman. The shape is a tall blot. He squints more closely and Forsythe laughs. “You didn’t think they’d be identifiable here, did you?!” Another blurred figure joins him. One is Shakespeare, the other must be Cordelia. There’s a flash of light and shrapnel shoots everywhere. The next frame of the video is of the burnt-out skeleton of a building. He feels himself grow numb. “It’s probably fine,” Forsythe tells him. Shakespeare’s gotten through worse than that. It’ll be another few days before we hear an update though.” He thinks he might actually be sick. “Shakespeare will not let Cordelia come to harm,” Forsythe assures him. Sherlock doesn’t sleep all night. His dreams are intolerable. He almost self-medicates, but doesn’t think it would help much anyway.

A few days later, Sherlock returns to MI6 and contacts him again. When they meet, Peter Forsythe looks at him incredulously. “I’m not at your beckon call, and The Agency isn’t a dating agency,” he scolds, echoing Mycroft’s earlier admonishment. After a few more minutes of arguing, Sherlock finally drops his shoulders and plops onto a chair. “Please,” he says quietly. I need to know. I need to talk to her.”

Forsythe smirks and then sighs. “I suppose I opened this door by showing you mission footage. You did not get this information from me. She should be back in her flat tonight around nine.”

Sherlock nods his head. “Thank you,” he tells Forsythe sincerely. Before he closes the door behind him, Forsythe says, “They’re called Bloodroses. The florist a block north of here has them. Twelve Bloodroses, one Angelwhite in the center.”

 

Thunder shakes the room and the lights flicker. Then the skies open up into the black night. From the window, the rain appears to be coming down in sheets rather than drops. Cordelia clips her hair back. Then she lights one more candle and dims the lights all over the flat. She takes the entire bottle of Malbec and makes for the bedroom and a much-desired hot bath. The doorbell rings. She stands in the middle of the room, closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. “What now,” she mutters. Before opening the door, she adjusts the tie on her kimono robe and her bra strap.

Sherlock holds the bouquet out to her. “I owe you an apology,” he tells her. He looks and sounds truly contrite. She accepts the offering. She asks him to remove wet shoes and socks before he comes inside. He lets her take his umbrella and raincoat.

Sherlock looks around at the low light, the myriad candles, and at the wine bottle Cordelia has just placed back on the counter while she fills a vase with water. “Did I interrupt something? Were you expecting company?” His brow furrows and he sounds worried.

Looking across the room at him, she smiles gently. “Sit down,” she tells him. “It was a long mission. I was treating myself to a bit of pampering and a hot bath.” He lowers himself into a chair and she watches his expression relax. The change in attitude spells out a shift in his mood from potential jealousy to relief. “Would you like a glass?” 

He shakes his head “no.” She pours one for herself and sits on the sofa across from him. She tucks her feet underneath her and adjusts where her robe has slid over her shoulder, exposing some of the pale blue lace of her bra. She takes a sip of wine. “The flowers are gorgeous. Thank you.” His blue-green eyes and high cheekbones shine softly in the dark candlelight. His mouth twitches a little though. He fidgets his long, slender fingers against one another. Angry as he made her three weeks ago, he really is lovely to look at. “You have my undivided attention, Sherlock.”

He looks down into his lap and shudders slightly. Then he looks at her plaintively. “Every morning,” he says, you are my first thought. I wonder if I’ll see you that day. If I haven’t seen you by noon I’m irritable. If go the entire day without even a text from you, I’m practically despondent. I can’t focus on my work or anything else without an enormous act of will.”

Cordelia takes another sip and holds her gaze steady. “I’m listening.”

“I dream about you at night. And then the day begins and the cycle starts again.” He pauses to take a breath. “When you were gone for the last eighteen days I felt like I was in withdrawal. My head and stomach hurt. I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t be near other people. Forsythe wouldn’t say where you were; Mycroft ascertained that you and Shakespeare were on radio silence. I feared the worst. I was distraught.”

She drains her glass. “And why was that, Sherlock?”

He looks almost miserable and completely sincere. “Because if you’d…if you’d died, I never would have had the chance to tell you how I really feel. I’m out of defenses. I think I might love you.” 

Cordelia doesn’t say anything immediately. She does a quick internal scan. Her breath just caught on his last sentence. Her stomach fluttered. She’s slightly surprised at how much she liked hearing that because she knows better. This will end in pain and tears. However, she admits that she too is hooked right now. And he looks downhearted so she eventually replies, “I see.” They sit in silence again. “What happens now?” She wishes she didn’t feel as tentative and hopeful as she does. This is stupid. She reminds herself again that she knows better than to allow this.

Sherlock shakes his head. “I have no idea.”

The reply makes her smile. “You must have rehearsed something in your head,” she gently teases. “What would you like to have happen next?” At very least, she can see how much he means it. She mentally makes the conversation into a test. Is he really humble enough to stay and stand up for himself?

He swallows hard. When he speaks again it is almost a whisper. “I’d like you to let me kiss you,” he tells her. It looks like he’s using tremendous effort not to speak into the floor.

Cordelia smiles again and stands up. Without really thinking it through, she takes a step forward and says, “Well then, here I am. I’m waiting for you.”

Sherlock gets up carefully. He’s shaking. His breath is jagged when he stands close to her. She tilts her head up and he lowers his mouth to hers. It’s tentative at first. But for a man whose words, until today, have always seemed to her sharp, calculated, and clinical, his mouth is soft and pliant. She presses her lips more firmly against his and slides her tongue into his mouth. It’s a good kiss. She knows this because she realizes that when they broke for air, she hadn’t been analyzing it. He looks bewildered. “Would you like to continue this conversation lying down?” she offers.

Sherlock’s expression changes to mild panic. “No!” He doesn’t take his arms from around her. “I mean yes, but I shouldn’t,” he stammers. “I need to go.” He pulls away and heads for the door. She follows him, curious. “I’ll text you though….I mean I’ll call you. I’ll text AND call you.” He grins and kisses her again. “I love you Cordelia!” He practically flies out the door. 

Cordelia stands in front of the closed door for a moment. This wasn’t completely expected. She knew some conversation or declaration was going to happen eventually, but she was still uncharacteristically caught off-guard. “In for a penny at this point,” she thinks. She glances over to the right of the door and smirks. “Thirty,” she begins, and heads into the bedroom. A few seconds later she walks out with a pile of towels. “Fifteen.” She hears wet footsteps in the corridor. “Five…One,” the doorbell rings.

Sherlock is drenched. He never put on his shoes or socks or his coat. His hair sticks to his face and his oxford shirt clings to his torso so tightly she can easily see the line of each muscle. His arm and chest muscles are much more defined than she’d have imagined, as are his abdominals. He’s actually in better shape than a few fellow field agents she’s been with.

She stares at him for a moment and then grins and closes the door behind him. She takes his hand and leads him back to the sofa, where she has spread out a towel. He sits down and looks back up at her. They both start giggling. 

Cordelia picks up another towel. She leans over him and sops water from his hair. “Let’s get you dried off and out of these,” she offers. Then she kisses him again. He slides his tongue past hers this time. He has a strong mouth. The kiss nearly takes her breath away. She unbuttons his shirt and moves her mouth and tongue over his jaw and Adam’s apple. After he shrugs it off she feels his muscles soften just by a fraction as he relaxes into the kiss. He reaches his hand to cup her cheek and draw her closer in. 

When she kneels over his lap, he is warm in spite of the cold dampness from outside. She draws her head back from him so that she isn’t leaning into him. The front of her kimono is damp now, too. He doesn’t keep his mouth away from her for long when she traces around his pectorals, his nipples, and the ridges of his abdomen. He’s not at all hairy, she thinks to herself, relieved. She runs her index finger and then her palm up and down the one downy, dark trail that leads past the waistband of his cold, wet pants. He groans softly and kisses her throat. Then he places a tentative finger over the nape of her neck. She instinctively sighs and falls against him again. She keeps her fingers just underneath his waistband. She leans in and opens her mouth at the back of his jaw, licking and biting around its edges and up to his ear. She senses hardness and heat behind the fabric of his pants. He wraps an arm around her back and pulls her in to kiss her deeply again. 

When she pulls back, he smiles shyly. “Your suggestion before I left…is it too late to change my mind?”

She climbs off of him. He really is uniquely and surprisingly beautiful. “This way,” she says softly. She turns around. After she takes a few steps toward the short corridor to the bedroom, she unties her wrap and lets it flutter to the floor. She hears him get up and the thud of something soft. She smiles to herself when he gasps with surprise. He hadn’t felt her undo his belt or pants. She continues to walk, tossing her hair clip to the floor and shaking her hair loose behind her. She waits for him at her bed.

**

Sherlock’s head is buzzing. There is no apparent brain chatter, logical or otherwise. He almost feels high, but without the delirious obsessive thoughts. Before he rises from the sofa she stops and lets her robe fall away from her. The entire movement, fabric and human, are liquid together. He stands up and nearly trips because his pants have fallen to his ankles. It normally would bother and intrigue him that she managed that trick so dexterously that he didn’t notice. She’s distracting. Her skin is luminous against the candlelight and her ass is the shape of an upside-down heart. Like a junkie desperate for a fix, he steps out of his pants and shorts and follows her without question.

Cordelia’s room is also dark and lit with candles. It smells faintly of roses and some bottom, cloying note. Patchouli but not quite, he thinks. Her bed is a little larger than queen-sized and dressed in white sheets and a pale blue quilt. When she sees him, she smiles and turns around to pull the quilt back. Then she stands and waits for him with her hands at her sides. Her entire body is flawless and radiant. He’s almost afraid to touch it.

Fear doesn’t matter much though, because without thinking about what to do next he steps up to her, holds her against his chest and kisses her. She sighs as their tongues curl around one another and she digs her fingers into his upper arms. The reaction sends a jolt of energy down from his stomach to his cock and it presses against her when she pulls him even closer.

He breaks off the kiss. This is about to happen. Some thread of sensibility surfaces in his brain somehow. He slides his palms over her shoulders and clavicles. Her skin is soft and he can feel her pulse quickening against his hands. When he holds her breasts, encased in lace right now, she sighs and lets her head fall backward. He moves his palms along her waist, her taut belly, and around to her low back and up her spine. He feels her shiver. She rolls her head forward again and pries his mouth open with hers. It’s as if she were hungry and his breath was sustenance. 

He finds the hooks of her bra and undoes them. They break off the kiss again and she tosses it somewhere on the floor. Her breasts are symmetrical and round, and her nipples are small and perfect. He holds his hands on her waist and stares at them, suddenly unsure of himself. As if sensing his apprehension, she slides her hand down the length of his spine. She meets his gaze and says, very gently, “It’s okay, Sherlock. I’d like you to.” He swallows hard and grazes his hands up her torso to cradle each breast. They’re simultaneously soft and firm. When he touches her nipples they harden.

He gives in completely. He bends forward and puts his mouth over one of them. She sighs loudly as he circles the tip of his tongue around one and then the other. He’s never felt this alive or this hard in his thirty-three years. He slides to his knees and skims his hands over her buttocks. He has no idea what to do. Actually he does, but no. He’s overthinking it. As he freezes up, she slides her finger under the waist of her panties and pulls them down. He is at eye level with something completely foreign. He looks up at her. She smirks and raises an eyebrow. Then she uses her foot to push one side of the panties down to her ankles, letting the other follow until she can step out of them. 

He stands up again and crushes her to him. He doesn’t want to think; he doesn’t want to be this nervous. He feels a little silly so he kisses her hard to squeeze out thoughts. When she pulls away she backs up and sits on her knees in bed. She reaches her hand out to him and he takes it. He climbs into her bed and sits on his knees facing her. His entire groin is vibrating as if electricity ran through it. Then he freezes again. Even paralyzed with disappointment, his body does not soften even a little. “Cordelia I don’t think…I didn’t bring anything. I hadn’t really anticipated…” 

She interrupts by scooting closer to him until their chests touch. She wraps her hands behind his neck. Everything I’m about to tell you is absolutely true,” she begins. “I am clean.” She kisses him softly. “I am protected from conceiving.” She kisses him a little harder, still with her mouth closed. Looking directly into his eyes, she continues, in a near-whisper, “And more than anything in the world right now, I want you to be inside of me.

Something in his brain, maybe the last thread of coherent thought, dissolves. They fall into each other. She lays back and he climbs over her, hands past her shoulders and knees between her thighs. Her hair splays around her head she reaches up to touch his chest, and then traces her fingers in a direct line to his penis. Her hand is delicate and warm, and she alternates between stroking him gently and lightly squeezing. His insides are shaking. He’s beginning to sweat. When she takes her hand away and reaches toward him again, he spreads her knees apart. This part of her body is even more fascinating to him than the rest. He tilts his head and circles his index finger around the outer labia. Her hips ripple slightly and she inhales sharply. He closes the circle further in. Her vulva is warm and wet. He traces that wetness in spirals along her inner thighs and back to the center. He’s entranced. Her hips rise and fall like waves and when he brings his finger to her clitoris the wave crests and she gasps his name. 

His entire body feels like it’s going to burst open. He moves closer and, watching as it happens, moves himself into her. He has no choice but to close his eyes when he nearly shouts out. “Cordi oh god!” They crush their bodies together and he wants to put his mouth and hands everywhere at once. She presses her hips toward his and their bones thump into each other. It almost hurts but he can’t do or say anything to make it stop. He doesn’t want it to stop. They both shake uncontrollably and their wet torsos crash and slip into one another. She tightens around him and they both begin to move more frenetically, faster and faster, until suddenly their bodies tighten and freeze, and they shout out. 

**  
She lets him lay on top of her to rest for a few moments. Both their hearts continue to pound furiously. She lightly fingers up and down his vertebrae. When they are again calm, he shifts onto his forearms and smiles down at her. It’s disarming. She thought she’d learnt her lesson about emotional entanglements. “But here we are,” she thinks, smiling back. He kisses her and says, “I really mean it. I love you.”

She chuckles and combs her fingers through his hair. “You weren’t sure you meant it earlier? You sound astonished.”

“I am,” he whispers. He takes a breath and says, “Falling in love wasn’t something I’d ever entertained as an eventuality. I never even felt the need for sexual intimacy. I feel sucker punched.” 

She continues to move her hand around his head and to the back of his neck. “Is that a bad thing?” She traces from the back of his neck to his jaw and then his mouth. He catches her finger between his teeth and closes his mouth around it for a moment. He lets it go and shakes his head “no.” His eyes are bright and wet. 

“Quite the opposite of a bad thing,” he tells her with certainty. 

She rolls him off of her and turns to face him. “Good,” she grins. That means you’ll stay here with me.”

Sherlock does something she is sure no one has ever seen him do: he blushes. His cheeks turn a shade pink and he smiles shyly. He really is exquisite. “For as long as you let me,” he says quietly.

Cordelia laughs. “Well, it turns out that last mission earned me about a month of downtime. You might get bored with me.”

That challenge makes him grin. He pulls her closer by bringing his hand behind her back. He leans in and kisses her. They linger with their mouths closed, but then Cordelia giggles and he uses the opportunity to kiss her more fully. “Let’s find out!” he tells her when they part again. He grins down at her again. “Game on!”

They lay on their sides and interlace their fingers. “Right. There are a few rules if you’re staying her long-term,” she advises, making her voice sound officious. He tilts his head and raises an eyebrow. 

“First, I insist on hygiene. There are spare toothbrushes in the cupboard to the left of the bathroom sink. There is a large shower; there is a soaking tub. We will make ample use of them.”

He nods seriously. “That’s reasonable.”

She continues, “Second, as much as I like the idea, we will have to do things other than continuously shag one another. There will be conversation, there will be reading, there will be periodic caloric nourishment.” 

He nods again. “I’m still willing to test our physical limitations, but agreed.”

“As a side note,” she adds, “You’re a very quick study. I’d not have guessed you hadn’t done this tons of times already.” 

He stares down at her and feigns indignation. “As you postulated when we met, I didn’t have any first-hand experience. I DO take advantage of access to books and the internet.” He kisses her forehead. “And I’m excellent at paying attention to details.”

She kisses him back on the mouth. “Indeed! Now then, that brings me to the last rule. Thirdly, there will likely be times when we need to either leave the flat or have food delivered, because I haven’t gone shopping. Aside from those eventualities, there will be as much nudity as possible.” He plops his head down on the pillow. She drapes her leg over his thigh and kisses him when he laughs.


	7. Chapter 7

2 days Later…

You’re wondering why I haven’t said it back, or if I ever will,” she says softly. She has rolled over onto her side. He turns over as well. Their faces are only inches apart, sharing a pillow. He slides his palm down the curve of her breast, along the length of her waist, and lets it rest on her hip.

“I don’t quite know the protocol here, and you’re a bit challenging to read,” he replies. He isn’t sure he wants this conversation. He leans in and he kisses her with his mouth closed. She presses back and slides her tongue over his lips before she presses it between them. He almost succumbs. But he pulls back. She can’t start a conversation like that and then change her mind.

Cordelia props her head on her hand. “You don’t know a lot about me,” she begins. “There are things I don’t want you to know because they are more than a little unflattering. They might send you away.” 

Sherlock considers this. Then he shakes his head ‘no.’ She smiles sadly.

“When I was seven, my father died. He was hit by a car. I adored my dad. He was the glue that kept our family whole. My mother blamed me for his death.”

Sherlock furrows his brows. Then he smiles a little and asks, “Were you driving at the time?” The joke falls flat. She looks plaintive. “Sorry,” he says.

“He was pushing me out of the way so as not to be run over,” she replies. I don’t think my mother really forgave me for that—for being a child in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He doesn’t say anything. He watches her pause and compose herself. There’s obviously more.

“When I was ten, she remarried a man named Charlie Houghton. He was an actor in her troupe. I liked him. He was kind to me, and he made me laugh. We were all happy again for about three years. Then he started visiting me at night.”

Sherlock’s stomach, throat, and jaw all clench tight. “Oh god, Cordi,” he says. She shakes her head. 

He of course threatened that if I told anyone I’d be in trouble, which is common for these kinds of things. I tried confronting him and my mother once and he already had a story prepared. It just made things worse. But then something happened when I was barely seventeen. I was just back from my first semester at Cambridge—I’d started early through dual enrollment in secondary school. Mom was sound asleep—I think he’d been drugging her. At any rate, my first night home for the holidays, there were Charlie and myself alone in my bedroom. I could see his shirt undone, the rough, dark hair of my stepfather’s belly. He took both my hands and shoved them lower down, so I could feel him harden. He said, “Cordi, I’ve come for my goodnight kiss.” I remember the unctuous tone of his voice, and the smile that slithered across his face." 

Cordelia pauses again. Sherlock is nearly frozen. He can’t tell which one of them is shaking. She continues, “I attempted to pull my hands away, turned my head further towards the wall, and asked him to go away.

"I tried to pull back but he held onto my wrists too tightly. I dug my nails into his skin, but he didn’t appear to notice. He told me, “It’s hard.” He growled the sentence up to the ceiling and I swear Sherlock it felt as if the phrase took physical form and became a monster in itself." Sherlock is horrified. He doesn’t know what to say.

“All I could hear was the force of the phrase. ‘It’s hard.’ It felt like an actual physical force. It infiltrated my skin, muscles, and eyes. The darkness, and all the rage it carried through me, burned. I tightened my fists. It felt as if white-hot pain and the sharpest of daggers pressed from inside, jabbing from between my ribs. Without thinking about it, I raised my right leg high, reared it back knee to chest, and kicked his face so hard he fell to the floor and his nose and mouth seeped bright red.”

Sherlock’s heart feels as if it’s sinking into his stomach. He simultaneously wants to find this man and eviscerate him and take Cordelia to his chest and hold her there, and swear to protect her forever. No wonder she looks up to Shakespeare. This is what Forsythe meant when he said that Shakespeare would protect her. This is why they were never involved. He understands now. He moves his hand from her hip and places it on top of hers on the mattress between them. He says, “Good. I hope you did it several times.”

Cordelia turns her palm up and gives his hand a small squeeze. “He didn’t say anything, he just stared up at me, looking furious. All I kept hearing was those same two obnoxious words. It was as if the words expanded and filled the room, tightening their hold on me like belts.” She takes a slightly shuddery breath. “I reared back again. His eyes opened wide, his mouth formed words, but I heard over and over, “It’s hard, it’s hard, it’s hard.” There was nothing else in the room except for me, him, and that sentence." Her voice trembles. This is still painful for her. It couldn’t not be. “If it’s painful for you to be talking about,” he begins, but she shakes her head.

“I jumped from the bed and slowly circled him the way I’d seen wild animals assess prey on documentaries. I must have looked half-deranged because he didn’t get up. His mouth moved again. More sounds came out. ‘It’s hard’ filled my brain, crowding anything else. I leapt for the kill. I never knew I possessed such an instinct.” She takes another big breath, as if preparing to get the rest of the story out in one go.

“I grabbed him by the neck, lifted his head up a couple of inches and slammed him to the floor. I yanked him by the collar of his shirt and then dragged him from the room. He flopped behind me like a ragdoll. To this day I’m not sure how a slight teenage girl managed that feat. In those few moments he had no power over me. I could have spared him; I didn’t want to. The phrase “it’s hard” practically came shooting out of the room behind us—an animal itself, all predator. I heard a man crying, but the animal words were too loud. “It’s hard.” I had to end this. I don’t even think I was truly myself at that moment. Or maybe it was my first glimpse of my real self. All I was sure of was that two creatures, the sentence and the man, had to die. This new, unfamiliar thing inside me was certain of this. I jerked him forward and pushed him headfirst. His broken body tumbled downwards. His limbs flailed about at all angles until he smashed into the flagstone tile at the foot of the stairs. I imagined that disgusting phrase hurling behind him.”

He wants to close his eyes and make the story go away from both of them. He forces himself to breathe slowly and watch her. “I’m not sorry that I killed him. I think that makes me as much of a monster as he or my mother.” Her eyes are wet and a little bit red. “No,” he says. He holds her hand tighter and she works up a smile. “My mother threw me out after that. Had it not been for my godfather’s interference, I would have been tried for murder. It was four years before I truly let my guard down and trusted anyone again. And then more tragedy happened.”

“Cordi,” he can only whisper her name because he’s never felt this much emotion as a physical thing before, stopping his throat. “I would never leave you because you protected yourself.”

She attempts a small smile again and sighs. “My second long-term assignment with Shakespeare was in America with the North American Agency. I met someone. He was the military attaché to our team. I trusted him. I loved him. We got married. Then Addison Smythe murdered him. He murdered him because it would render me useless and that would impair Shakespeare. That is why I’m on this assignment. I will be there to see him suffer consequences.”

He isn’t sure what to make of this. But she continues, “My point is this: people who I trust, people who I love, all eventually leave me for one reason or another. They betray a trust, they abandon, they die, and I’m left wondering how I could have made things different; how I could have avoided awful consequences for loving people. My solution was to not to get involved or to love.”

Sherlock doesn’t move his hand from hers even though he’s shaking. She slides hers away instead and sits up, drawing the top sheet across her breasts. He looks up at her. “To put it plainly, what is happening right now frightens me on many levels.” There’s a tear falling down her left cheek. He props himself up next to her and reaches over to wipe it away. Her face is cool and her tear is warm. More begin to fall. “I don’t know when or if I’ll be able to say what you want to hear. I’ll understand if that’s unacceptable and you decide to leave. But I don’t want you to go. Against all logic and caution, I want you to stay here with me, Sherlock.”

She bows her head down to bury it in her hands but he stops her. He takes her face in his hands and kisses it. He kisses the tears as they fall, even though his own are beginning to form. “I already told you,” he says quietly, “I love you. Even without experience I’m sure that isn’t a conditional emotion, Cordelia. I won’t go anywhere until you make me. And then I’m likely to put up some resistance.” 

She puts her hands over his and kisses him. He wraps his arms around her and rocks her as she presses her mouth to his. Both their mouths are full of each other’s tears. She pulls away and whispers, “There’s even more. There’s more and I can’t tell you because it’s classified. There’s so much more you need to know.” 

“It’s okay,” he says back. “It’s really okay.” She smiles up at him. It’s a real smile now. She looks relieved and he feels as if something has unraveled in him. He kisses her and she pushes her mouth back hard against his. Their breathing quickens and they pull each other’s bodies closer together. She lays back and he rolls on top of her. He keeps his arms wrapped around her and she says into his neck, “It isn’t okay. And I want so much right now.” 

He does, too. Somewhere in the back of his mind there is a question. There are a lot of questions. Most prominent for him right now, however, is need. He needs their skin to be touching. He needs their mouths to be on one another. She kisses him deeply and arches into him. He slips into her and for a few moments at a time, their boundaries almost blur. It makes him want to cry. This is an intensity of emotion he’s not used to. She cries out and gasps as she climaxes and a moment later he does the same. They cling to each other for hours.

 

5 days Later…

He sits back across the couch. His legs extend down its length and Cordelia rests against his chest. “How am I supposed to concentrate on reading anything,” he says into the top of her head. He holds the small booklet of poems in one hand and rests his arm just under her breasts with the other.

She tilts her head back to look at him upside-down. Her hair is tousled and she is smiling. He tells her she’s beautiful. It makes her blush. “Make something up if you can’t concentrate,” she instructs. “You have a very sexy voice.”

“If you insist,” he says, but he sounds unsure. She pushes herself up so that she leans against him with her feet on the floor. She kisses him and says, “I insist. No matter what happens, don’t stop talking.”

He shrugs and attempts for the fourth time to read the Blake poem all the way through. His voice is low. It’s like a silky creature that slips past the valleys and canals of her ears, into her whole head, down to her throat, and then descends even lower. She leans back and watches the movement of his throat as he speaks. She wants to feel his voice penetrate her. She reaches around and kisses his neck as he continues. 

He stops again. “I don’t HAVE to continue.”

“Oh yes you do. Do. Not. Stop. Talking,” she replies, and kisses him again, this time at the hollow notch at the base of his throat. He continues. The cadence of his voice gets a little shorter as she moves her head back and across his abdomen. He continues to read. She wants to hear his heart as he speaks so she moves her mouth up to it and kisses his chest. It’s only a natural progression for her to lick his nipples. 

He jumps a little and laughs. “You are set on making this difficult, aren’t you?”

She ignores him and he begins again. She rolls onto her stomach and glides her tongue around the ridges of his abdominal muscles. He swallows hard, takes a shuddery breath, and continues. From this angle she can see how hard he is. He is purposefully keeping his free hand off of her. 

He’s good at maintaining his concentration, and seeing him that hard as he goes through the verse makes her entire body tingle. A fantastic idea forms. She slides off the sofa and onto the floor. He looks down at her. “Are you alright?” He looks amused.

“Keep reading,” she answers. She’s a little breathless. “Don’t stop.” He resumes the poem.

He stops abruptly as soon as her mouth closes over the head of his penis. She swirls her tongue over it a few times. Then she looks back up at him and frowns. “You stopped.”

“You must be kidding.”

Cordelia sits back on her heels and her breasts graze his shin. “Keep reading.” He looks at her strangely and then begins yet again. She traces her finger up and down the length of his erection. He takes another big breath and continues. When he speaks again she puts her mouth over him again. He manages to get to the penultimate stanza before he is entirely in her mouth and all he can do is gasp. If she could smile right now, she would.

**

The words jump around the page when her mouth closes over the head. He needs to take a breath between each word. When she pushes the tip of her tongue to the frenulum, he runs out of air altogether. He tries to keep going anyway because he thinks it would be tragic if she stopped now. He can’t see the words by the time she takes him entirely into her mouth and he starts reciting other things he already knows. When she cups his balls in one hand and presses the fingers of her other hand into his groin all he can do is say her name over and over. What he wants to do is ask if she really wants to continue any of this but he doesn’t want her to stop. Every so often she breaks off the rhythm of her mouth to close her lips around the head again. She gently sucks up pre-ejaculate when it emerges. He doesn’t even try to stay in control. His hips thrust towards her and she slides her hands around his buttocks. He manages to get out, “This might be your last chance…” but she squeezes her mouth around him and his balls seize up. He comes hard into her throat and she swallows with every thrust. She doesn’t take her mouth away until he stops moving. Then she smiles up at him and reaches across to the side table for her glass of wine. She takes a few sips and then sidles up next to him on the couch. 

“You stopped reading,” she accuses. He rests his head on the back of the couch and laughs.

 

8 days Later…

He stands a few inches from her and looks her up and down. She reaches up and slicks back his wet hair and waits for him to answer.

“Not yet,” he grins at her. “Not remotely. Now turn around.” 

She’d just asked if, after more than a week of very close proximity, he’d gotten tired of her yet. She knew the answer already. She obliges and turns to face the stone tile of her shower wall. She rests her palms and cheek against its cool, textured surface and lets him massage bath oil into her neck and back. “Mmmm…” she says. “Good because I’ve become very spoiled about what you’re doing right now.” 

He rubs the jasmine-scented oil into the small of her back, then up her sides. Water streams out at them from the side jets and steam from the hot water surrounds them. He stops to add more to his hands. “You’re not the only one,” he says softly. He kisses the side of her neck and resumes the massage, moving his hands around her breasts. She’d forgotten how much she missed genuine human touch, she'd said yesterday. She reaches around to grab his hands and pulls them tighter around her front. He kisses the other side of her neck, then her ear. He knows she can feel how hard he is from behind. “We can do something about that once I have the energy to move,” she suggests.

He puts one hand on her shoulder and the other on her hip and turns her around. Her head rolls around and her arms hang limp at her sides. She closes her eyes and smiles, but doesn’t try to move. He rubs more bath oil on her chest and over her breasts. She makes a humming noise when he puts his mouth over each of her nipples and then uses his thumbs to cover them with oil as well. He works his way down her torso and gets on his knees to massage her belly and her thighs. She spreads her legs a little wider apart and rests her hands on his head. 

When he gets to the top of her inner thigh, he too is caught up in the moment. Blossoms and steam are in his lungs and in his pores. He kisses the top of her inner thigh and she sighs and kneads her fingers into his head. Without thinking about it too much he moves his mouth between her legs. Her pubic hair is soft and neatly groomed. He moves his fingers through it until there is no hair and they reach her labia, then her clitoris. She shivers and opens her legs wider. He hadn’t really thought to do this. He’s read enough about it though, and he thinks he knows how.

He slides his hands down her outer thighs and touches his lips to the same place his fingers just touched. She shivers again and sighs. So he does it again. This time he opens his mouth and closes his lips around it. He sucks very softly and it grows inside of him. It’s amazing. He opens his mouth wider and sucks more of her into his mouth. Her knees buckle and he uses his arms to support her. He strokes along her labia with his fingers and looks up at her. Her eyes are closed and her head is leaning on the wall. There is a small, blissful smile hovering around the edges of her mouth. Her breath is short and even. He wants to touch her breasts again. He knows she likes that, but he also wants to explore this new way of having her. So he takes one of her hands and rests it over her breast. She doesn’t resist. She smiles a little more and traces her fingernail around her nipple. It’s quite possibly the most erotic thing he has ever seen, and he's recently viewed her head between his legs, her cheeks drawn in, gray eyes wide, locked on his. In fact, he decides, there isn't anything about her that isn't a turn-on.

He kisses her belly and moves his head down again. He wants to see what else can happen here. He touches his tongue to the far end of her vulva and slowly drags it forward. In one place she is very wet. He spends some time exploring the inside of that place. It doesn’t really taste like anything. He had thought there would be a taste, but mostly he just feels warm wetness on his lips and tongue. He spreads it around with this mouth and then sucks on her clitoris again. Her hips begin to shake. She moans softly. He continues. She breathes in short little gasps and her voice raises by half an octave. He continues. This is fascinating. Her clitoris is small but full and now her hips are starting to undulate as she shakes. She moves her hands back to his head to steady herself. She starts to lose her footing and slides forward. He stops her by holding the backs of her thighs and pressing his palms into her buttocks. Her clitoris stiffens and she cries out as her hips rock faster and faster until she is completely spent. His hands and mouth are soaked with her and with the shower water. She slides down the wall and sighs. 

They sit on the floor of the shower and let the hot water spray over them. Her head still leaning on the wall, eyes still closed, she accuses, “You said you’ve never done this before.” They both laugh. 

“Perhaps you just inspire me to be creative,” he suggests. He kisses her shoulder. She laughs a little bit again. “I am a very happy muse,” she jokes. She shifts around to sit in front of him. She straddles her feet outside his hips and wraps her arms around him. Then she kisses his mouth. He’s still hard from before and she presses against him.

“Can we? Are you sure after that?” 

In reply, she kisses him again and wraps her legs around his waist. He pushes up into her and they rock together as the steam envelops them.

12 days from Day 1:

While Cordelia is at the market, he checks his mobile for the first time in nearly two weeks. It’s full of frantic messages from Watson, from Mrs. Hudson, from Mycroft, and from Molly. He sighs and puts it down. She won’t be back for about forty minutes. Curiosity gets the better of him. He walks into her office and moves the mouse. A picture of the Hindu goddess of destruction, Kali, appears on the screen as her wallpaper. Her tongue is bloody and red and her skin is inky black. She wears a necklace of demon skulls and holds a combination of heads and weapons in her many hands. Clearly there really is a side to Cordelia that he has yet to understand. He clicks on her documents files. There are a few academic treatises on botany and philosophy in various languages. Her email box holds the usual combination of spam, advertisements, and some correspondence between her and a couple of friends. There are a few from her godmother about having tea together sometime soon. 

Her pictures file contains several of herself and various friends, a lot of landscapes from places she’d been, and a few memes she must have found amusing or profound—he can’t tell because they are not in English. She is not on social media. That makes sense. There is nothing in her private files that indicate that she is anything other than she states: support personnel for a spy, a human woman with a life and who has seen awful things, and experienced too many losses. In an older picture folder, there are photos of her with the same man in the framed picture. He knows now that the man is Logan Grimes, her former husband. She looks younger, obviously—she was twenty-three or twenty-four at the time. They look happy. They look like they’re in love. He isn’t sure about the emotional reaction he’s having to this. It’s fear.

When she returns he is holding that framed picture of her and Logan and looking down at it. “You aren’t competing with a ghost,” she says gently. 

He puts it down. She puts down her two string bags of groceries and walks over to him. “I’ll put it away somewhere if you want me to.” 

He shouldn’t care. He’s here with her now, and this picture is from, as she said, a lifetime ago. He must look as uncertain as he feels, because she says, “He made it possible for me to trust people again. He made it possible for me to feel. He’s the reason I am able to be here with you now.”

He kisses her forehead. “What if we spent time at my place for a little while?”

She laughs. “I just bought food for here!” But in an hour, they are out the door.

15 days from Day 1:

Cordelia is still asleep when he hears movement in his living room. She looks so peaceful. It’s an effort to tear himself away, but he knows that Watson and Lestrade are eventually going to come in here if he doesn’t head them off at the pass. He throws on his jeans and steps quietly out of the room. 

“Oh my god, where have you BEEN?!” Watson and Lestrade cry out. They alternate between scolding him and hugging him. Mrs. Hudson runs into the flat when she hears the commotion and throws her arms around him, then slaps his arm. “Don’t EVER, EVER run off like that…” she cuts her admonishment short. 

“Sherlock did you see where you threw my bra last night?” Cordelia wanders out from the bedroom corridor in the blue button-down shirt he was wearing last night and a pair of panties. “Oh, hello Watson!” She smiles widely and nods to the other two. “Hi!”

All five of them stand quietly gaping at each other. Cordelia shrugs, walks over to the table by the couch, and fishes her undergarment from beneath a discarded t-shirt. She holds it in one hand and reaches out to shake hands and introduce herself to Lestrade and to Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade shakes her hand looking vaguely amused. Mrs. Hudson pulls her in for a hug. She’s practically crying. She holds Cordelia at arm’s length for a moment and then pulls her in for another hug, kissing her cheek. “I was hoping it was something like this!” she gushes. 

Cordelia exchanges a few pleasantries and excuses herself to dress. Mrs. Hudson kisses Sherlock on the chhek, beaming, then leaves. Watson punches him in the arm. “You dog!” he exclaims. How long has this been going on?

Sherlock stares at him. Lestrade says, “John said you’d gone missing two weeks ago, so my guess is just over that.” The two men grin at him. Sherlock smirks, grabs his t-shirt from off the couch and pulls it over his head without answering. When Cordelia re-emerges in her clothes, she goes to him and threads her arms around his waist. He instinctively does the same without thinking about it, or about the commentary that will be coming later. Instead he smiles down at her. She stands on tip-toes as he leans down and kisses her. “I’ll see you later then?” 

“Of course!” He kisses her again and then she pulls away. She tells Watson it was good to see him, and the other two that it was lovely to meet them. Then she leaves.

When Lestrade takes his leave as well, Watson sits down and stares at Sherlock expectantly. “Well?” he asks.

“I told her the truth, as you suggested,” Sherlock replies. “Thank you.”

Watson isn’t satisfied. “And?”

Sherlock sighs. “And the rest is not your business.”

Mrs. Hudson pokes her head in again. “I couldn’t help but overhear,” she begins.

“Of course you couldn’t,” Sherlock replies, trying not to feel intruded upon.

She tells him, “You have had us worried for more than two weeks. You owe us at least this much.” She looks insistent.

He rolls his eyes, but the edges of his mouth twitch because he’s trying not to smile. He looks over at her, and then at Watson and says, “I told her the truth. I told her that I love her.”

The expected celebratory yelps ensue from his two friends. He ignores them and goes to his computer to see what he’s missed.


	8. Chapter 8

One month later…

Sherlock paces the next room of Eurus’s puzzle and makes fists. He’s already seen one man shoot his wife and then get shot down himself, then another man plunge to his death upon completing a riddle Eurus had set, and, almost as bad, had to lie to Molly, his friend, who doesn’t even know about Cordelia, and say he loved her. And then there’s the matter of the little girl plunging toward the center of London in an airplane.

Mycroft and Watson look sad and panicked in turn. Eurus commands them to sit down in the three chairs in the room that face a blank wall. They comply and a movie screen emerges from the ceiling. “I’m afraid there’s no popcorn,” she tells them over the intercom. “Tell me Sherlock, does Cordelia Lear love you?” 

He jumps to his feet. Before he can make an impotent threat she laughs. “Sit down, brother. I’m not going to harm her. I’m going to show you a movie though. I’m sorry it isn’t a live performance; there’s about an hour of lag time.”

A picture of the rocky beach at the edge of the island comes into view on the screen. He knows that at the top of a cliff is the institution where Eurus lives and the three men are being held as captive playthings. A title appears across the scene of the tide moving in: “Shakespeare in Love.”

Sherlock groans and looks at Mycroft. Mycroft looks pained and guilty. “Mycroft?” he says. 

Before a conversation happens, there is movement on the screen. A figure in a wetsuit emerges from the water and in the distance a submarine lowers into the sea. The figure drags a large duffel behind them and moves behind some rocks that form a shallow cave. “I’m sorry about this,” Mycroft mumbles. From the cave emerges a woman. She is wearing a black leather cat suit and an open black trench coat whose tails whip behind her in the wind. There is something strapped to her back. Sherlock feels his stomach twist into a knot as his brain catches up with his gut realization. It’s Cordelia. She’s left Shakespeare behind to go after them. She must have learnt they’d come here. Watson grabs Sherlock by the wrist and gasps.

“She isn’t involved in this!” Sherlock shouts out. “You let her alone!” Eurus laughs hysterically. A few moments after Cordelia looks around, three guards with semiautomatic rifles descend on her. Sherlock shakes his head. “No. Oh god please no.”

One of the men trains his weapon on her and fires. Cordelia dives down and across the distance between them and flips him onto his back by the ankles. He drops the weapon and she picks it up with one hand to toss it into the water. He stands up before she does and ends up taking a round of ammunition in the chest for his trouble. The two other men close in to flank her. Cordelia rears back and slams their heads into each other. One recovers and grabs her from behind. She draws her knees to her chest and slams them into the other’s throat, making him gag and fall down. Then she thrusts her weight downward so that her feet land on the ground and flips the other man over. He gets up as the other one recovers. She reaches back and produces a very fine, very well-crafted looking katana. “I’m so sorry,” Mycroft mutters again.

“This is your fault and Shakespeare’s,” Sherlock growls. She’s doing this because you and he and Forsythe allowed it.” Watson looks across Sherlock to Mycroft. Mycroft shakes his head slowly. In the meantime, the camera pans across the beach. Cordelia is studying a schematic that’s being projected from her watch. It looks like something out of a Bond movie. Behind her are three very bloody victims, all dead in the sand. “Sherlock,” Watson says gently, “she’s been lying to you.” Sherlock shakes his head vigorously. 

The screen shows corridors and rooms full of guards who have suffered the same fate as the men on the beach. Watson shudders. Eurus’s voice fills the room again. First she laughs again and tells them, “Don’t squinch your eyes yet; we haven’t even gotten to the gory bit!” Then she informs, “We’ve edited parts of the trail of bodies from the beach to her next destination for the sake of expediency.” The next scene is of Cordelia standing in the middle of a large balcony in a larger room. She yells out, “SMYTHE! SMYTHE IT’S OVER! SHOW YOURSELF!” She sounds commanding and furious. 

All he can do is watch in disbelief. He keeps replaying Forsythe’s words in his head: “Shakespeare has taught Ms. Lear many, many useful things. You’d be surprised.” The mantra repeats itself as he watches an imposing man in black and holding a katana charges at her. It repeats when she easily deflects the blow and charges back. She exclaims, “I should have anticipated your being here!” and smiles. It’s a smile Sherlock has never seen on her before. It reminds him of a cat about to toy with a mouse. He still won’t allow his mind to come to the obvious conclusion about her. “He’s going to kill her,” he whispers. “Eurus make him stop. Please.” 

The video freezes as the man’s blade comes down toward Cordelia’s shoulder. “I have no control over this, brother. This is all my friend Addison’s party.” The video starts up again. He slashes through her shoulder. There is blood. She and the three men watching all wince. “Eurus please,” he begs. She ducks around the man and he goes flying headfirst into a wall, a victim of his own velocity. He spins around and charges again. She turns and runs. “Good girl,” he whispers. “Run.” Then she leaps upward and uses the wall to flip back to him. Her legs fly out and make hard contact with the man’s gut. He falls backwards and drops his sword. She springs forward and kicks it through the slats of the balcony. It goes clanging to the ground.

The man looks nervous. He begins to crawl backwards. She looks at him and practically snarls, “That hurts. I have been very, very tired of you for two years now, Shohei. You’re almost as much of a disgrace as Smythe.” He says something back at her in Japanese. Even without knowing the language the three of them can tell it’s an insult and threat. She smirks and says something back to him in Japanese. He leaps to his feet and leans back to roundhouse her. The screen goes black. 

Sherlock jumps out of his seat and cries, “NO!” 

“Oh do sit down, the show’s not over,” Eurus coos. “I knew you were a bit sensitive to extreme gore. I was sparing you.”

He sinks down into his seat again and covers his eyes. “No, no, no.” Eurus commands, “Watch.” The next thing he sees is Cordelia. There is blood spatter all over her. She wipes her sleeve across her eyes. Then she kicks something. Whatever it is thuds to the ground thirty feet below the balcony. Mycroft leans over and gets sick. Watson turns pale. They see, from a hight and not in much detail, a human head splattered on the ground.

“SMYTHE!” Her yell is now a roar. A pleasant looking man in a gray suit steps out from the shadows. He leans on a far wall across from the balcony’s edge. Shaking his head slowly, he tells her, “That was a bit over the top even for you, Cordi.” She descends upon him in four giant steps. He pulls out a pistol. They can’t see her face at this angle, but they see that she doesn’t react and they hear what she says. “Please, Addi. Please give me a reason not to take you alive as ordered. I’m aching to kill you where you stand.” Her voice is hard and matter-of-fact. It makes Sherlock shiver. 

“I think I’ll have a pass on that,” he says calmly. He squeezes something he’s been hiding in his fist and the front half of the balcony explodes. Pieces of stone and cement fly out and Cordelia goes reeling backwards into the air. The video pauses again.

“This is the really fun part,” Eurus says. “I’ve decided to play it in slow motion so you don’t miss anything.” The picture moves again. Almost frame by frame they see Cordelia’s surprised expression change to determination. She draws her legs, arms, and head in and somersaults once, twice…four times and then lands in a crouch, looking upwards at Smythe’s smug and startled expression. In another three frames she grabs a very large firearm from a holster that her coat had hidden, aims with both hands, and pulls the trigger. Watson stares at Mycroft. “That’s a Desert Eagle! He exclaims. I thought she didn’t use firearms!” Mycroft shrugs. “What you were told was that she doesn’t LIKE firearms. No one said she didn’t know how or when to use them.”

Smythe curses and falls backwards. She takes her time standing. She is smiling again. Smythe eventually pulls himself along with his arms and looks down at her. His lower right leg is bleeding. With effort, he takes a big breath. “Well, good show!” She takes a step forward. “Before you claim your prize you have a choice to make, I’m afraid,” he taunts. She ignores him and takes another step. “You take me now, and your little boyfriend will remain at the mercy of his sister!” 

She freezes and snaps her head up to stare at him. “You’re lying.” She accuses.

Addison grins. His mouth is a little bit bloody. “I am many things, but not a liar Cordi. You know this. He and his companion and his brother are all here for a little family visit. I doubt it’s a happy reunion. Eurus giggles as the video continues. Cordelia yells, “SHIT!” she aims and shoots him in the shoulder. “Stay there until I get back.” She takes a moment to listen to him moan in pain. She smirks briefly. Then her expression changes almost to panic and she takes off running. The video ends.

“I’ll spare you the rest of the carnage your lover caused and skip to the next scene, she tells them. She’s in another room. Her hands are bound behind her and two men take turns holding her head in a tub of ice and water. She looks exhausted. “ENOUGH!” Sherlock pleads again. 

“Quite right, brother,” Eurus replies. The next scene has her headbutting one of the men and kicking the other in the groin. She struggles to free her hands. “Cut a long scene short, it didn’t work, and now you have some decisions to make,” Eurus tells him. The blinds covering a wall that is entirely window pull back. In front of them, Cordelia is hanging upside-down by the ankles. Her coat flaps in the wind. She isn’t moving. Her eyes are closed. All three men jump to their feet. 

Just as with two rooms ago, a shelf holding a pistol slides out from a wall. “You just found out something awful about the love of your life, Sherlock,” Eurus states. “Do you still love her? Do you want to save her or are you too disillusioned to even see her now?” He feels cold. He can’t even move. All he can do is stand there shaking his head slowly. Cordelia’s body spins as the wind whips around her. Parts of her are still stained with another person’s blood, as well as her own.

“Your friend, your lover, or our brother, Sherlock. You can’t have all while I’m stuck here with none. Choose which one goes.”

Mycroft says softly, “Take me.” Watson and Sherlock stare at him. Watson looks as cold and shocked as Sherlock feels right now. “She’s important to the Agency, and both her and Watson are important to you. You can fix things with her.” He looks resigned. Looking him in the eyes Mycroft repeats, “I’m the logical choice here. It’s fine.”

Sherlock reaches for the pistol and takes a few steps back. “Game over,” he says with more fear in his voice than he wished were there. He pushes the muzzle under his chin.

“Oh, very well, but you’re no fun at all.” He can almost picture the fake pout. He lowers the pistol back down and Cordelia’s ropes give way. He screams and throws himself at the glass as she plummets into the deep, choppy water below.

He can’t move. He can’t even stand. His legs go wobbly and he collapses onto his knees. Watson and Mycroft drag him away from the window as he shudders uncontrollably. “Soldiers, Sherlock. We’ll sort this out later. Right now we have to be soldiers,” Watson says quietly. Something smells off. Then there is nothing.


	9. Chapter 9

Sitting on a cement floor, he remembers everything now. The little sister who one day wasn’t there, just like his friend. He wouldn’t let her play pirates with them. He shakes his head hard to sort the memories into their proper places in his mind. Then his mobile rings.

Watson is in a well. He’s found bones. Sherlock understands whose bones before Watson informs him they are not from the dog he thought he had, who had run away. He can hear water rushing into the well. Watson is going to die. Eurus steps out from the shadows and takes his phone. She tosses it across the room where he can’t have it. He begs for his friend’s life. “You’ve taken the only person I’ve ever loved. Please don’t take my only friend as well.” 

Eurus appears unmoved. She drags a stool over and sits down. She looks down at him and smiles. “Not much longer. You’ll be alone like me. I wonder if you’ll go mad as well,” she says thoughtfully.

“No one else is dying right now, save for one.” Brother and sister startle and whip their heads towards the voice. A door is open. A woman stands in its frame against the light from behind her. Cordelia takes a few menacing steps over to them, grabs Eurus by the back of her neck and hurls her to the ground. Her braid is a sandy, wet rope fraying in a few places. Eurus goes sprawling across the floor until she slams into a wall. She scrambles to right herself and squats against the wall. Sherlock can’t speak. 

“John Watson is safe. Mycroft Holmes is safe. YOU are about to be dead,” she informs icily. Eurus’ eyes grow round and large. Cordelia stalks over to her and pulls her sword from its sheath, which is hidden beneath her coat. She raises it and Eurus opens her mouth.

“SHAKESPEARE STAND DOWN!” Cordelia freezes mid-swing but she doesn’t drop her katana. Peter Forsythe steps purposefully into the room, frowning. “Sheath your weapon and step away from her.” Cordelia’s eyes narrow and her lips pinch at the edges. “Byron,” she says with just a hint of a plea.” Forsythe walks over to her, takes the sword by its hilt, and pulls it down. “It’s an order,” he says gently. She doesn’t fight him. “Go with Chaucer. We need you with Smythe.” 

Mycroft and another man walk halfway into the room. Chaucer holds his hand out. Cordelia takes back her sword form Forsythe, sheaths it, and glares at Eurus. She doesn’t look at Sherlock as she passes him.

Forsythe nods to Mycroft and they all exit the room. More agents come in and descend upon his sister.  
***  
The three of them sit on the back of an ambulance wrapped in trauma-shock blankets. Cordelia is sitting in front of Addison Smythe, who has at some point been administered first aid. “Did you know,” she tells him, that the human hand has twenty-seven bones?” He glares at her. “And the interesting thing about that fact is that I know how to break each one individually with just a bit of pressure in the right place.” She takes his right hand and presses down. Something snaps and he yelps with pain.

“That was for Shelley.” Another bone snaps and he gnashes his teeth. “That was for Milton.” Another snap. “That was for Milton’s family.” The list goes on, bone by bone. She saves the scaphoid at the palm of his hand for last. “And this, finally, is for Logan.” She presses hard and he screams. “Are you QUITE done yet,” he demands.

“You have two lists of contacts, double agents, and weapons buyers on thumb drives. Where are they?” She holds up his right forearm. His hand looks grotesquely swollen. He glares at her again. She squeezes and there is a large snap as one of the arm bones breaks. Smythe grimaces. “You’re not the only one who’s been taught to withstand torture, Shakespeare.”

She doesn’t reply. Instead she lets his arm flop down and he yelps as it hits the side of his stool. She picks up his other hand and studies it. “If I tell you, I’m no longer of use and you’ll kill me.” His voice is raspy. Cordelia laughs lightly, as if she were amused by a joke. “If you keep this from us, you’ll wish you were dead. Anyway, I promise. You have my word as a former friend and colleague, in the name of everything that was once trusting and good between us. I will not kill you, Addi.” He sighs and gives her two locations and account numbers. An agent walks away as he talks into his mobile. 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She coos. 

“I hate the whole lot of you,” he growls back.

“I know,” she replies. “By the way…” She holds his left hand in hers. She squeezes hard and he shrieks. “That was for Sherlock.”

Sherlock is somewhere between catatonic and sick. He is watching a stranger who resembles someone he cared about a great deal. A few minutes later the agent comes back and whispers into her ear. Cordelia smiles. “Good boy, Addi. I’m not going to miss you even a little bit.”

“I thought you promised you wouldn’t kill me,” he says nervously.

“And I will keep that promise. I am not going to kill you.” She steps aside and Forsythe sidles next to her. He’s holding a pistol. “Lord Byron drew the long straw for that privilege.” Before Smythe can respond, Peter Forsythe, Lord Byron, whoever he is, pulls the trigger and shoots a hole into Smythe’s brain pan. 

The two of them stand there for a moment, looking slightly stunned. “It’s really finished,” she says quietly. 

Peter nods his head once. “It’s finished.” She folds into his chest and he puts his arms around her. Sherlock can tell she is shaking, maybe even crying. Who is this woman? Where is the real Cordelia? He watches the two of them. It’s clear that at least at one point, they were more than just handler and spy. He’s not sure what he feels. Somewhere there is jealousy. Somewhere there is compassion and love and he wants to go to her. There is also revulsion. 

After a few moments, The Agency and MI6 begin to pack up their things. Two more agents go to Cordelia…Shakespeare, and lead her away towards a black SUV. She glances over her shoulder and looks at Sherlock. Her expression is a mix of relief and regret.


	10. Chapter 10

Ten Weeks Later…

Sherlock smiles and hands Watson’s daughter back to him. He’ll admit that she’s cute in a kind of helpless, dribbly way, but babies also smell awful at a moment’s notice. Watson takes her up and carries her to the changing pad on the floor behind the sofa. Mrs. Hudson beams down at them and then heads back to her own flat to fetch a blanket for the baby. Molly and Lestrade are here as well. His friends are here. He and Mycroft just visited their parents two weeks ago. He’s learning how to connect to people again. It feels good.

“She’s a heartless killer,” Watson had told him a week after it all happened. After the two of them were debriefed, Lord Byron held Sherlock back. “I had to pull some strings and get permission from her for you to see this. You might know some of it already.” He pushed a tablet across the table to him. “Before you read this, I will tell you a few things you do not know, but should.

“First,” he told him, “I know Cordi better than anyone I daresay. She’s the closest thing I have to a friend, which is a rarity in this bizarre and isolating business. She wanted to tell you once the information gathering part of the mission was over. We had several arguments about it actually, but she was under strict orders. If she didn’t care about being with you, she would have simply kept an eye out to make sure you didn’t get killed and kept her distance.” Sherlock could feel his heart pounding. He was torn between hearing what Lord Byron had to say and walking away, and then doing his best to medicate his way out of his cognitive dissonance.

“Second, I don’t know what she’s told you about her personal past. If you know about her childhood, and you know about her stepfather and Grimes, if she told you anything about her past even in broad strokes, she trusts you. Trust doesn’t come naturally to Cordelia. It’s part of what makes her so good at her job. She’s so good at it that it’s hard even for me to tell when she’s acting and when she’s sincere, but whatever happened between the two of you had nothing to do with the Agency.”

Sherlock kept his gaze steady as Byron spoke. “How many partners? How many corpses?”

Byron smiles gently. “Kills? Too many to count. People who know the name Shakespeare in espionage circles fear her, if that gives you an idea.” He pauses to sigh. “Partners? If we combine actual targeted seductions that involved sexual activity, partners she used for some other tangential means, and self-chosen lovers, a lot. I advised her to stop counting after the first hundred, in terms of both corpses and live bodies.” He lets Sherlock absorb this. He doesn’t laugh at what is probably a horrified expression on his face. 

“Female CA FA’s are rare, and Shakespeare is an anomaly in that she’s excels everywhere,” Byron explained, smiling kindly. This was a different side of him. Today, man to man, discussing their former lover, there was none of the condescension he’d gotten used to. He wondered whether the shift was significant of something else. “She’s the best we have. When women are taken into this particular role, their reproductive organs are essentially sealed up. She can’t contract STI’s. She can’t get pregnant. She is one of five women who have actually survived beyond the first two years of this experimental procedure. She’s perfectly clean.” Sherlock swallows hard and runs his hand through his hair. It felt as if there was a rock in the pit of his stomach.

“I wasn’t thinking of that,” Sherlock replies.

“Anyway, as you’ll see, Cordelia Lear has been avenging her youth and killing her stepfather over and over for a very long time. We gave her a more focused way to do it, with impunity.” He nods over to the tablet. “Those are her files, with as little redaction as I could get them. I’ll leave you to it.”

The first page contained a headshot of a very, very pretty young woman whose birthdate would have put her at twenty. She wasn’t even through with graduate school before The Agency sunk its hooks into her. Her self-description was brief. “I am broken. I am angry. I don’t want to be either of those things and I will not allow anyone to suffer a similar fate. I am trying to be a better person.” 

Her words became a kind of background cadence as he read about mission after mission, and the way she truly relished handing back her pain to everyone she was told deserved it. She was so young. Peter Forsythe took advantage of her. He might have become enchanted with her himself after the fact, but ultimately there was an abuse of power that he used to The Agency’s advantage. Cordelia had been used for eight years. 

Three years ago, she indeed met someone whose candor and compassion reawaked, as she said in one self-assessment, her memory of being a multi-faceted human being. Emotions and vulnerability frightened her and yet she was drawn by them. She was drawn to Logan Grimes. Logan Grimes saw everything that she was and still loved her. He made no demands that she change anything, even though she backed off of using sex as an Agency weapon while they were together. She allowed herself to love. The prospect of stabbing somebody post-coitus wasn’t as appealing because Logan reminded her, without ever having to say it, that she was good, and deserving of esteem and love. In another self-assessment, she said that for a very long time, she’d thought that Cordelia Emily Lear didn’t exist, only Shakespeare. But Logan left her vulnerable, and she remembered she was entitled to a life…at least until Smythe reminded her otherwise.

When Smythe killed him, it was to undermine the agent he knew would eventually bring him down: Shakespeare. After that she dove deeper into her laser-focused duty to The Agency and made it her mission to shut him down. Sherlock closed his eyes before he read on. This, he finally understood, was why even though sometimes it was obvious, she never told him she loved him. She denied as much humanity as she could. She was wounded and cautious. The last two people she truly loved died horribly and indirectly because of her. It was no wonder he and she went so well together: they were almost the same. She chased her demons with a scorched earth policy of sex and blood. He just had different outlets. 

A month passed with no word from her. Periodically, Byron would take pity and return a text to tell him she was on some training or retreat. “I really don’t know,” Byron told him the one last time they’d met in person. They were at a dump of a Chinese restaurant that looked to be a hive of espionage activity. Byron sipped his tea and said the Smythe/Eurus affair had been a harrowing end to an intense and prolonged journey. “She needs time. She needs to meditate; she needs to train; she needs to assess things. She knows you’ve read her files. She knows you’ve talked to me. I really don’t know how this will shake out.” He sat back in the booth and shrugged. “Sorry.”

He remembers this as he stares out his living room window and his friends chatter. Watson and Mycroft both seem relieved the entire ordeal—every aspect of it from the first time they met Shakespeare through the time she and Lord Byron tortured and killed Smythe—is behind them. “The less I deal with The Agency the better,” Mycroft emphasized. Watson has been not so subtly trying to steer him towards Molly. It’s painful. She knows better, but still seems to hang onto the hope that the empty words Eurus made him say to her could be even a little bit true. He sighs and turns back to his friends. He sits down and pours another cup of tea for himself. It’s been long enough. He has begun to resume his life without Cordelia. “Enough,” he thinks to himself. "I need to move forward. Enough.” He looks up and smiles at his companions.

He hears the two pairs of footsteps before anyone else and stands abruptly. Watson, LeStrade, and Molly all jerk their heads up to stare at him, startled. Then the door opens. Mrs. Hudson smiles widely. “You have a guest!” She steps into the room and Cordelia walks in after her. She looks somehow smaller. She’s the same, but her demeanor is somehow more fragile. She has on a pair of faded jeans and brown leather boots, a t-shirt with a picture of a white lotus flower on it, and a leather bomber jacket. It’s American, and it’s too big on her. Her hair hangs loose and frames her face. They get within a foot of each other and say nothing. They keep their hands by their sides.

“Sherlock please don’t,” Molly whispers. She sounds like she’s going to cry. He ignores her. 

“Sherlock?” John half-warns. Sherlock keeps his eyes locked on Cordelia’s. 

“I wanted you to know. This wasn’t how I wanted you to find out,” she finally says quietly. 

“I know.”

“I owe you an apology. Everyone actually but mostly you. I’m sorry you had to see that part of who I am. I’m sorry I hurt you.” She takes a breath. She appears smaller because she is contrite. Or at least that’s how she’s behaving. Is this an act as well? She looks up at his face. Her mouth is slightly pinched, as if she’s fighting to keep from crying. She’s too proud and too well-trained to show that much vulnerability in a room full of potential hostiles. But she doesn’t need to be here, either. She would have chosen to stay away if she didn’t want to be here. She has elected to engage in this jagged conversation. The words and gestures are subtle and they come in in fits and starts. 

His heart pounds the way it did just before he saw her dossier. It pounds the way it did just before they kissed for the first time. “I know,” he says again, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice.

They stare at each other a bit longer. Watson and Molly take turns protesting and directing her to leave. 

“To quote you,” he asks, again trying to keep his voice even, “What happens next?”

She looks pained and unsure. As with that of contrition and guilt, it’s not a look he’s seen on her before. “I’d like to stay. I’d like to try again. But I won’t fight back if you want me to go.”

“THEN GO!” Watson erupts, jumping to his feet and knocking some papers to the floor. She turns her sad gaze to him and Sherlock hears him sit back down and sigh. He remains perfectly still. He isn’t sure what he wants. That isn’t true. He is actually very aware of what he wants but understands that this is new territory and that she is a blind spot for his reasoning. He should take Watson’s advice.

She turns back to him. “Very well. I really do understand.” She takes another slightly shaky breath. “I will not darken your door again. This will be the last time we see each other.” 

She turns to leave and his stomach and throat practically seize up. He reaches his hand out and grabs her by the arm, folding her to his chest. He buries his face in her hair and she very tentatively puts her arms around his waist. “Please stay.” His voice is on the verge of breaking. His tears begin and get her hair wet. He kisses the top of her head. “I love you and I want you to stay,” he whispers, and kisses her brow.

She holds onto him tighter and squeezes. She whispers “thank you” into his shoulder. They look up at each other and Sherlock crooks his finger under her chin. “I don’t know when I’ll say it,” she begins, but he interrupts her. 

“I can be patient,” he assures. He tilts her chin higher and kisses her closed mouth. He’s missed this. Her mouth is soft and strong and she smells like roses and violets. He smells water lily. That’s the base note of her perfume that he hadn’t been able to identify until now. He inhales deeply and kisses her again. She smiles just a tiny bit and kisses him back. Then they pull each other in tighter and, mouths closed, kiss more firmly.

He hears Mrs. Hudson direct, “Right, it’s time for the rest of us to go.” She holds the door open and LeStrade gets up to go. Then Molly goes. Her feet are heavy, as if reluctant and resigned. 

Watson stops and looks at them. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he tells him. 

Without moving his face more than a fraction from Cordelia’s, he smiles down at her. He’s happy. He’s actually happy. “I have no idea what I’m doing,” he says to Watson even though he doesn’t look away from Cordelia. She reaches up and kisses him again, this time working her tongue past his lips. He hears Watson leave and the door shut behind Mrs. Hudson.

The click of the door coincides with something that clicks in his brain. He opens his mouth and pushes it into hers. She presses back. It’s as if they’re inhaling and swallowing each other at once. She slides her arms down his sides and lets her jacket fall to the floor. He takes advantage of having fewer physical barriers between them and pulls her in tighter still. She pulls the edges of his t-shirt and he raises his arms to let her lift it over his head and toss it aside. She lets him do the same. They crush their torsos in to each other. He wants his skin to touch every inch of hers. He feels her hand at his jeans button and she undoes it. He mirrors the move and undoes her jeans. 

She slides her hand underneath his pants and strokes his erection through his underwear. He is electrified. He reaches down and traces her hip bones down beneath her panties and lightly slides his fingers underneath the fabric around her labia. Her reaction is to sigh and roll her head back before she finds his neck and jaw with her mouth. They yank off each other’s jeans. He practically tears her bra off of her and they walk backwards towards the couch, knocking over an end table and a few papers in the process. 

He sits down and she winds her legs around his back. When he lowers his mouth to her breast she hangs onto his neck, arches back and sighs his name. He’s missed her. He’s certain he’s needed her more than any drug he’s ever used and he can’t quite get enough of her yet. He scoops her up with one arm and carries her towards the bedroom, knocking over more furniture, books, and teacups as they go. 

They are already rocking their hips towards one another before they even lay down. He feels full and alive and he’s not ready for this to end. He pulls back, straightening his arms and hovering over her. She looks up at him. She is hungry and aching and completely vulnerable. She draws her knees in, lifts her hips, and wraps her ankles around his neck, pushing his head closer to her breasts. He bites one of her nipples and she shudders. Then she moves her legs back down, over his chest, and around his back again. “You’ve been holding out on me,” he smirks.

“I missed you so much,” she says. Her voice is a cross between a sighing and weeping. “I want you so much.” Her eyes are huge and gray as storm clouds. He wants to be at the center of the storm. They push into each other and he finally feels whole. He used to tell Watson he was an imprecise dreamer for saying things like that. He understands now, though. Their bodies are hot and slick with sweat as they move together. When she climaxes she makes a sound that reminds him of a roar. It comes from somewhere deep in her belly, as if her entire body is about to implode. It triggers his own climax and he can’t tell anymore where his body’s boundaries are. 

They cling to one another for some time afterwards, until their breaths become even and soft again. Then he rolls off of her and leans on his arm. “I love you.”

“Good,” she smiles back. “Then you’ll let me stay.”


	11. Chapter 11

December 8  
Sherlock props himself up in bed and looks around. His flat isn’t as neat or bright as Cordelia’s. On the far wall is a brown lacquered chest of drawers that dates back to 1956. It serves its purpose and has no extra, useless decorations. On the adjoining wall is one nightstand and his full-sized bed, whose gray and black sheets are a tangled mess. He’d never really thought much about his decoration choices. Cordelia forced his hand on the subject. “You obviously *chose* your furniture. You made the decision to pay for your furniture and have each piece brought up a narrow flight of stairs and around some tight corners to get here. You put a good deal of effort into not appearing to bother with the aesthetics of your surroundings,” she’d argued. 

He sighs and looks down at the sheets again, which are bunched up between Cordelia’s legs and wrapped around her torso. Her head has slipped off the pillow and her ponytail coils under her cheek. When he shifts his weight, she yawns and stretches her arm across his chest, pulls herself closer to him, and sighs. She’s not really awake yet. Outside it is not quite light yet, although the quality of light is obscured as a result of a few years’ worth of not cleaning the windows. There’s a dull yellow light cracking through the solid dark gray sky. There’s a little bit of frost on the window panes. If he were prone to fanciful thinking, just looking out the window would give him chills.

He can only see the top of her head and the upper two-thirds of her back from this angle. Her back, like the rest of her, is soft and smooth. One wouldn’t know how muscular she was without getting closer and tracing their finger around the edges of her trapezius and dorsal muscles. He wants to do that right now. He wants to put his fingers very lightly on the hollow space at the back of her neck and then let them travel further down and across her shoulders and back. He wants to touch his mouth to that spot and have it follow his fingers’ trail all the way down to the hollows at the small of her back. He thinks about her soft, firm buttocks, which have a gray top sheet draped over them. He imagines easing himself back onto the bed and carefully peeling it off of her. He thinks about angling himself so that his cock slips between her thighs and brushes her clitoris very softly. Instead, he leans his head back on the headboard, closes his eyes, and lets her sleep.

He allows his body to relax completely. His lap is warm beneath Cordelia’s breasts. Her slow, even exhalations warm on his cock, bringing it half-erect. They were up all night on and off. She must literally be shagged out. He should let her sleep. Her breath is so light and warm though, and she’s stirred just enough so that now her fingers are only a few millimeters away from his balls. He tries not to think about it and to let his muscles soften even more. He slows his breath. He reminds himself that he has plenty of willpower for just about anything.

He’s not sure which one of them moved: either she rolled in slightly or he slipped a bit further down when he dozed off. Her fingertips rest against his balls. Every time she breathes they move very gently around them. This is getting harder…in several ways. He keeps his eyes shut and continues to focus on slow, deep breaths. He slips into that space between sleep and wakefulness. He just barely notices her yawn and stretch her legs and torso. His balls are in the palm of her hand now, and her other hand is now draped across his belly. Soon, both sets of fingertips graze over his skin, barely touching him as she sleeps. He should probably move. Or he should ignore this and think about something else. Or try to sleep again. He absorbs himself in picturing Barnett’s Conjecture, the heretofore unsolvable geometrical problem. 

It seems to help. He imagines the graphs involved in the problem: the angles of the imaginary polyhedron. He’s on the verge of realizing something and the equations in his head work themselves out evenly and rhythmically. Math is essential to music after all. His entire body sways to the problem. It isn’t until the hand of Cordelia’s that was on his belly has slid several inches down and the other has crept up to the base of his cock that he completely registers that she’s awake, and he’d been moved from math to music for an entirely different reason than geometry. But these angles are much more absorbing. 

He keeps his eyes closed as she shifts positions and her lips hover over the head of his cock. She stays there for an interminable number of breaths. He tries to match his breath to hers. When he does that, his hips press up against her mouth. She brings her mouth completely over the head and strokes his length languidly as if she were doing this in her sleep. She doesn’t take him in farther than that. She alternates between breathing over him and barely sucking him. If her movements are gentle though, her tongue takes on a life of its own. It slides around the edges, under the rim, and then back over to the top. She spreads the pre-ejaculate that’s formed over the whole head, making it even wetter before once again, without even sealing it off, she brings her lips over him and delicately sucks it into her.

He needs to touch more of her body with more of his. He pulls away and slides onto the mattress. She doesn’t move, so when he’s at her level he’s behind her. He gives in to temptation. He moves her ponytail aside and presses his mouth to the back of her neck. He rolls onto all fours and his knees straddle her buttocks. Then he lowers onto his forearms and touches his tongue to the space behind her ear. She sighs audibly. He brings his palms up over her breasts and holds them before he brings his thumbs across her nipples. She exhales sharply. He keeps his hands there for as long as he can. He can still touch her back with his cock. And he does so as if it were another highly sensitive finger. He drags it back and forth between her shoulder blades and then traces down her spine. He experiments by lowering himself more so that the length moves along her back, and then lifting up so the head travels the same trajectory.  


Her hips begin to push into the mattress. He watches, fascinated, as her hamstrings, gluteal muscles, and abdominal muscles tense as she bears down and then release. He lowers down closer to her. His cock pulses at the small of her back, right above the rounding of her buttocks. She’s breathing faster but still evenly. He skims his hands along her waist. When they reach her groin he touches each index finger to her outer labia. She inhales sharply. He doesn’t want to make her climax with his fingers. He wraps his hands around the hinge of each hip and lifts her a few inches from behind. He lowers his mouth down to the hollow space of her lower back and makes infinity loops between the two indentations. She moans very quietly. She has released her entire weight into his hands. He is starting to lose control of his own body and his hips thrust toward her raised ass. He lays himself on her and slides his cock along the length of her vagina. He doesn’t make a lot of contact with it, just enough for his head to spread her wetness all over both of them. Each time his head touches the very highest zenith of her sex she moans a little bit more audibly. 

Her body is shaking now and her hips insistently rock downwards towards his cock. He presses it more firmly against her clitoris. Her groans get a bit louder. They push against each other without him ever penetrating. She shakes harder and half-moans, half shouts out as they thrust into one another. His cock feels full. Her body becomes less rhythmic and her breath jagged. She squirms under him and presses her sex more insistently against him. He pushes back, his length stretching along hers and his tip circling around her clitoris. She shouts his name and goes over the edge. 

He holds back. He continues to glide his sex along and against her own without trying to enter her. After a few moments she begins to shiver again and the second orgasm comes in an enormous burst of movement. He doesn’t want this to stop. He waits until she is gasping from orgasm number four before he feels like he’s going to explode. Without warning, she presses into the mattress and flips him onto his back. She wraps her mouth around him and takes him in completely, all the way to the base. Her mouth is warm and wet and it conforms around his cock as she sucks hard. He doesn’t have time to warn her. His whole body seizes up as if he’s been electrified. It’s as if every part of him comes. The orgasm is everywhere, all the way to his scalp, fingertips, and toes. He practically screams when he shoots past her tongue and down her throat.

Neither of them move right away. Her head rests on his belly. As they wait for their breaths and pulses to slow, she occasionally kisses or licks his tip. He scrunches her hair in his fist and strokes along the crown of her head with the other hand. Eventually, she sighs. She sounds completely satisfied. She kisses his tip and then his navel once more and presses herself up to sit, and then gets out of bed and heads to the bathroom. He hears water running and the sound of her electric toothbrush. 

“Good morning,” she says sweetly when she climbs back into bed next to him. She leans her head on his shoulder and he wraps his arm around her shoulders. He wants to return the sentiment and finds that he doesn’t have words. When he opens his mouth to speak tears creep around his eyes and roll down his cheeks. She doesn’t seem to mind. She drapes her free arm across his lap and they look straight ahead and out the window to watch morning present itself in full.


	12. Chapter 12

Neither of them pay much attention to holidays, they’d said to each other. And yet, she has just opened two bottles of chardonnay to breathe before his friends arrive. Their friends. They’d also said no gifts to each other, but he has a plan. And besides, they had agreed with Mrs. Hudson on some type of gift exchange, so it won’t be completely out of place. He’s doing things he has scoffed at all of his adult life, and curiously, nothing about this really bother him as much as it does flummox him.

He watches her from a distance. Cordelia laughs at something Mycroft has said to her and they offer each other genuine grins. 

The whole lot of them sit in his living room and he tells her, “We said we wouldn’t, but I actually do have something for you.” She opens her mouth to protest as he steps past Mrs. Hudson and Molly to fetch his violin. Then he goes back to where he had been. He remains standing and smiles at her. He’d been composing this for a month. The piece begins with their very first meeting when he was so defensive about her. It slows and crescendos into their first time together…the first time they kissed, coming in from the rain, staying with her for so long that people worried. The music picks up to allegro when he found out about her, and becomes slow and sad afterwards. The piece rounds out with a day they spent in Staurhead, when he kissed her in broad daylight, not caring who saw them. It concludes with just her: Cordelia not as a physical entity but as music. She is smiling by the end even as a few tears form at the corners of her eyes.

She stands up as he lays down his instrument. She kisses him right there, in front of everyone, full on with the tip of her tongue very briefly, very lightly, touching the roof of his mouth. “You liked it then,” he ascertains when they part. He moves his hands to rest on her upper arms and she keeps her fingers interlaced behind his neck. 

“I loved it,” she replies quietly, obviously moved.”

“I have something of sorts for you as well.” 

Sherlock regards her with curiosity. “Oh?”

Locking her eyes on his, she straightens a bit. Her expression is serious. “Here, in front of the people who care about you most as witnesses to this moment, I am telling you this. I love you, Sherlock.” 

He grins and sits down on the couch again, pulling her down with him to sit on his thigh. “Say that again.”

She smiles widely. “I love you. Te dua. Ana behibak. Jeg Elsker Dig. Ohevet ot’cha. Aishiteru or Anata ga daisuki desu. Je t’aime, Je t’adore, Te amo. Against every hesitation I’ve ever had, in spite of every precaution I have taken, I love you.”

From his peripheral vision, he sees that Watson and Mrs. Hudson appear elated. He reaches around to the back of her head and pulls her in to kiss her for as long as he can manage not to take another breath.

By eleven they are alone again. “I do have one other thing that I couldn’t resist, and technically it’s to share,” she tells him. She reaches into her overnight bag and pulls out a flat, gift-wrapped item that is obviously an oversized book. She sits next to him on the couch and hands it to him. 

When he opens the gift he laughs. “Bedtime story?” 

She smirks. “Something like that.” She moves up close and leans on him and he puts his arm around her shoulders. 

He places the book on his lap and opens up to the first page of a new translation, complete with ancient pictures, of the Kama Sutra. “Well then, let’s see…” he begins. We’ve done that, and we’ve done that, and also these four.” She reaches up her head and kisses the back of his jaw.

“This one, absolutely not…we can try this one though…”

“Why not that one, darling?”

He mocks a double-take. “Because I’m not double-jointed and I don’t have anything from which to hang upside-down.” 

She shrugs and peers down at the page. She points to another picture and says, “How about that one?”

He takes a moment to analyze the physics and risk of injury. “We have a winner!” he exclaims. He scoops her up and carries her to bed.

******* 

Not for the first time over the past three hours, Cordelia wonders whether meeting Sherlock’s parents over the holiday was a good idea. She’s got on fine with them so far, and Mycroft has been instrumental in filling in the awkward silences. She has no idea why, as someone this highly trained, she’s having trouble staying calm. She scolds herself for behaving like a nervous schoolgirl meeting her boyfriend’s mother. Of course, the presence of John and the baby are also excellent distractions for Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, except for when they glance expectantly between her and Sherlock.

Unfortunately, John has made a regrettable slip of the tongue. “If not for the different housekeeping standards, you’d think these two were living together and married by now!” The conversation around the dinner table has halted, and she doesn’t like the way his parents are staring at her. They both look like they’re going to burst. They’re hiding something from the people at the table. 

While she scans Mr. Holmes for signs of what the secret might be, she says, “Tell me about the beach at the edge of your property.” The house is in a neighborhood on the water, and they all have a bit of beach in their rear gardens. “Tell me about what the boys were like. I understand the beach was their favorite place.”

Mr. Holmes grins widely. “I don’t suppose you can get him out there again on a regular basis—or anywhere outside for long periods, just for leisure. He used to roar mightily when it was time to go inside and away from the sand and water when he was a child!”

Mycroft and Watson both chortle and Sherlock stiffens. “Mother, let me help you with the dishes,” he says flatly, and gets up. When Cordelia rises to do the same, both parents urge her to sit, that she’d their guest, let their son help around the house for a change.

But Sherlock comes back out again in less than five minutes, out of breath. She raises an eyebrow. He looks like he’s just seen someone murdered, except he’s less calm about it. “Go!” she hears Mrs. Holmes tell him. “Go show her the beach. Go for a walk.” He looks at Cordelia, sighs, and motions her to the coat closet.

It’s low tide and the beach is empty. They have the entire strip along a row of about two dozen homes to themselves. “Was your mum trying to kill us?” she asks, because his facial muscles and shoulders are tight and he hasn’t said much since they’d descended the uneven stone steps down from the lawn to the sand. 

He grins for real, and she feels a few knots in her own back unwind. “I do wonder occasionally.” He glances over at her. “You are freezing, aren’t you? We can turn around.”

She shakes her head even though the wind whips the folds of her jacket sideways and flat against her, and has pushed her hair out of its ponytail almost completely. He stops walking, takes of his scarf, and winds it around her neck. “Are you sure you’re alright?” she asks. She knows he isn’t. His parents aren’t the only ones keeping something from her. But she knows better than to push him for answers just yet. He’s clearly deciding how he wants to say something.

In a non-answer to her question, he says, “We probably should have worn gloves.” He covers her bare hand with his and they resume the walk. His other hand remains thrust into his coat pocket. He fidgets his fingers inside it. 

She doesn’t even hear birds, because they know better than to fly in this confounded wind. She squints against the sand that whips up into her face. “As much as I enjoy being alone with you and as pretty is the scene, you clearly have something on your mind. I wish you’d tell me sooner than later, before we both freeze.”

He doesn’t break stride, but he closes his hand around hers more tightly. “I miss it when we’re apart. And remembering whose personal items are in whose flat is becoming a bother.”

That’s what this is about. There was probably going to be a disagreement over where they’d end up though. He loves 221B Baker Street, and she is not about to relinquish her own beloved space. “Are you saying you want to move in together?” She keeps her voice as flat as she can against the loudness of the waves.

“No, Cordi. No. I’m saying I think we should get married.”

She’s glad she hadn’t eaten much for dinner, because all of her insides lurch. She stops short. “I beg your pardon?!”

“I’ve thought about this a lot.”

“Have you?”

He narrows his eyes and frowns. “Let me finish.” She takes a breath and waits. “I know you’ve been around this particular block before. I understand how you feel about it. But I also know, especially after this past few months, that our time is finite. I want to spend what’s left of it with you. Officially.”

He waits expectantly.

“What are you not telling me?”

His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows hard. “Your job is dangerous. I don’t necessarily want to bring other human beings into this otherwise wretched world, I am not going to tell you to stop being Shakespeare. But I want to know you’re alright. I want to know you’re coming back when you’re away. Lovers are not entitled to that information. I was afraid you were dead a few times recently. Spouses get more information automatically.”

She waits a moment to make sure there isn’t more. After a few seconds of him staring at her, her stomach flutters and tightens, and the corners of her mouth twitch. Then she throws her head back and laughs. “Such a romantic!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Fine. We’ll do it the clichéd way if you like.” He drops to his knees. “Cordelia, I love you. I am asking you to marry me. I am beseeching you to marry me. It would make me extremely happy to share a domicile and wake up with you every morning for the rest of my life. Will you marry me?”

He doesn’t even blink. He’s absolutely serious. She thinks about Logan, who, like Sherlock, had a lot of skill in keeping himself alive, but died because of her. So it surprises her when from her mouth, the word “Yes” emerges. 

Sherlock grins widely and stands up. He smooths his fingers around her eyes. She hadn’t realized she’d teared up. She throws her arms around his neck and kisses him hard. “Yes,” she says on purpose this time, into his ear. 

He slides the ring onto her finger, which was what he’d been playing with in his pocket the whole time. “It was my gran’s,” he tells her. I had mum resize it for me.”

That’s what his parents were so enthusiastically zipped up about earlier. She cups his face in her hands and kisses him again. “For the first time in a long time, after we met, I felt alive again. I thought I’d forgotten how to feel anything. Of course. Of course. I feel the same, Sherlock. Let’s officially spend our lives together. I love you!” 

He gathers her up in his arms and kisses her more deeply. She’d forgotten what absolute surrender felt like. Her entire life was his. It had been for a long time, even though she’d been reluctant to admit it, especially to people like Peter. Or to herself. She wants this. She wants him, she wants the warmth and wetness of his mouth on hers. If she didn’t already know how unpleasant it was to roll on the sand naked, she’d want all of him right now. But it could wait. They have all of their lives. Maybe she’ll scale back her role in the field. They have an entire future.

She turns when Sherlock breaks off the kiss, peers past her shoulders, and yells out, “We didn’t hear you over the wind! Are you lost?”

Cordelia turns around. A man in fatigues and military boots stares at them. Behind him by several yards, Lord Byron charges him full-speed ahead. She remembers this man. She remembers his photograph from the list of “at-large” associates of Smythe’s. He reaches into his jacket. Cordelia pushes Sherlock aside and steps in front of him as Byron shouts something. There’s a loud bang: a pistol firing. Then she feels incredibly hot. Then she feels cold. Her weight is entirely in Sherlock’s arms. He’s says something. He sounds far away and despondent. 

******* 

Another blast rings out and the shooter goes down. Peter Forsythe comes running while Sherlock sinks to the ground with Cordelia. “No, no, no!! NO!!” Peter hurdles over the perpetrator and slides in next to them. He puts his fingers to Cordelia’s neck. Then he shuts his eyes tightly, sucks in his lips, and shudders.

Sherlock pulls Cordelia to his chest and everything is red and wet. He can’t even sit. He falls forward and drapes his body over hers, kissing her hair, her forehead, and her mouth. She doesn’t kiss back. He tastes her blood on his lips. Someone cries. Peter. Peter sobs. So does he.


	13. Chapter 13

Hyde Park, England, One week later

Sherlock and Peter Forsythe sit on a bench in Hyde Park. In Forsythe’s car is a box of Sherlock’s things from Cordelia’s flat, in addition to some of her personal items: a framed photograph of them. A framed page of the sheet music to the piece he wrote for her…his love letter to her. “Take what you want from here,” Peter had said to him. “Because tomorrow, Cordelia Lear will not have existed.”

He nods. “I know.”

“And your flat?”

“Packed up for the time being. I’ll be…”

“Don’t tell me,” Peter reminds him. Sherlock goes silent.

*****

New Hampshire, United States of America, January

It only takes two cleaners to remove the body from the bed, and then erase every last vestige of blood, hair, and semen from the entire hotel room. It astounds her, the way these people work, the level of discipline and attention to detail they deliver every time she calls them in. She wonders if this life will ever get old. She hopes not, because a life that is not solitary is a life that ends in tragedy for everyone for whom she cares. Agent Shakespeare tugs at the hem of her bomber jacket, the one that belonged to Logan, and starts to walk. She heads east, toward a park she used to like. 

The place is nearly deserted, but a smattering of families dots the far horizon out by the playground. It's warm for early January. She watches as a mother laughs and lifts a chubby baby out of a swing. It feels like a lifetime ago when she walked across this bridge, hand in hand with her new husband as they talked about their future. It was the same set of questions she’d just asked herself this morning. Logan died three months later. She swallows hard, shivers, and shoves her chilled hands into her pockets. Then she props herself against a low, stone wall and waits.

After three hours, Shakespeare is ready to give it up. She’s not coming, the intelligence was faulty. She sighs, straightens, and just as she turns to leave, she thinks she sees her. This woman has already evaded Shakespeare three times in as many months, so Shakespeare leaves nothing to chance this time. She takes a step back into the shadows of some trees and watches. The woman is alone. Is it her? The woman ascends the bridge, apparently oblivious to her observer. It’s definitely her, no question. When she reaches the apex of the bridge, Shakespeare silently steps out from her hiding place, aims her pistol, and pulls the trigger. Eura Holmes doesn’t have time to look surprised. She simply keels forward, bent at the waist over the bridge railing. Shakespeare looks around. Certain that no one is nearby, she texts the cleaners again. “Keeping you busy today. Sorry,” along with coordinates. Then she steps onto the walking trail and leaves the scene.

She doesn’t get far though. Like the mythological Orpheus, she can’t help it, she turns to take one final look at the body of the woman who complicated her life in every way. Yes, she’s dead. She is dead, dead, dead. Good. 

There’s movement from the other end of the bridge—a single person, not a team of cleaners. Shakespeare freezes, waiting to see if she needs to intervene with a passerby. As the man approaches the dead woman, Shakespeare knows who is there. The purposeful gait, the mess of dark hair, the flap of his overcoat. Sherlock simply stands there, pale and expressionless. She wants to go to him. She wants to grab him by the hand and run off someplace. When is this way of life going to be enough?

The park is silent, sunny, and brilliant in the dying vestiges of its bare, winter sunlight She takes a step back into the shadows, careful to be quiet. He’ll hear her if he isn’t careful. Indeed, his head perks and he glances around, shielding his eyes with his hand. Shakespeare swallows hard again and thinks about whether she wants Sherlock to find her. The brilliant yellow rays of sunlight look like a halo around his dark hair and clothing. She thinks about Apollo, the god of light, who pursued the naiad Daphne. Rather than be caught, Daphne was turned into a laurel tree. Similarly, Shakespeare isn’t sure whether to run into solitude's embrace or allow herself to fall into her lover’s arms once more.

Agonizing seconds tick by. Sherlock hangs his head for a moment, then turns and leaves in the direction from which he arrived. He may or may not know she’s here, that she’d been watching him. He knows better than to allow his emotions unbridled control, as does she. Cordelia Lear never existed. Ahead, she sees a group of hikers, heavily laden with supplies, approach: the cleaners. She nods to them as she passes on her way out. 

When she’s on the city sidewalk again, she’s surprised to find her face wet. There’s no reason to be sad. There is nothing to mourn. Her target is dead. Tomorrow, she will arrive back in London, spend some much-needed down-time with her godparents, and unwind. Across the street, standing under a café awning, she sees a tall man with dark hair staring at her. When he sees he’s caught her attention, he begins to move. He weaves between some tables and, without paying attention to traffic, runs across the street to the sound of cursing drivers and blaring horns. The late afternoon air is starting to get colder and smells like impending snow. It's time for her to leave. She stays.

**Author's Note:**

> Cordelia Lear, Shakespeare, Lord Byron, Peter Forsythe, and Addison Smythe are original characters, some of whom have appeared in previously published anthologies. All rights reserved.


End file.
